The Giants' Alphabet
by fms-fangirl
Summary: AU set in New York in 1955. Warning: M/M slash, domestic violence, dub-con
1. Chapter 1

Sometimes you just knew when a project was going to go wrong, he thought. There was no reason to believe that the odds were stacked against this one, but somehow he just knew. John had laughed at him and told him to stop borrowing trouble, but that sense that something wasn't quite right wouldn't go away.

On paper, there was no reason to feel this way; the drawings were sound, the materials were good, no one was suggesting that they cut any corners and the crew was the best. Still, there were always a million things that could go wrong, especially on a project this size; he knew.

Maybe the bad feelings had started when the politicians got involved; maybe it was when he spotted the red-haired union boss snooping around the crew; maybe it was something about the bland smile that never quite reached the blue eyes of the contractor, but by the time he heard that the architect was visiting the site he knew that this was not going to go well.

He shrugged and went back to the task at hand; John was the foreman, let him worry about it. But that was the problem, John wasn't worried about it and Randy couldn't fight off the sense of foreboding that had plagued him all week. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw a taxi pull up and two men get out. He recognised the contractor and supposed the other was the architect, but turned his attention to the endless series of steel girders that formed the skeleton of the massive structure.

Randy found the repetitive nature of the work soothing, in spite of the noise, and soon became absorbed in what he was doing. The early spring day was just warm enough to work without a jacket and just cool enough to allow him to engage in physical labour without becoming uncomfortably hot. He stopped and stretched and realised he was being watched.

A short dark-haired man smiled winningly at him. "I'm sorry," he said. "I don't mean to stare. It's just that I find the process fascinating."

Unaccountably taken aback by the young man's interest, he took refuge in feigned boorishness. "Stare all you like, bud," he grunted. "Just keep out of the way."

He wasn't being fair, he realised; the man was standing a safe distance away; he wore sturdy boots and a hard hat. That suggested he was no stranger to construction sites: a refreshing change from some of the suits who visited, picking their way through the rubble and detritus in hand-made Italian loafers. Nor was this man wearing a suit: he was clad in blue jeans and a plain shirt. Only his obviously expensive sunglasses looked out of place.

With a start, he recognised the architect. When they broke ground for the project the Times had done a short article with a picture of the young man standing near him. He was very young to have won such a large commission, it had said. His design had aroused some controversy, but Randy had seen the drawings and had admired its stark simplicity.

Without thinking, he approached the other man. "No I-beam mullions?" he asked with a slight smirk.

The architect answered him with dead seriousness, "No. It's all very well to be inspired by Mies, but I don't want to be a second-rate copy of him."

Forgetting himself, Randy continued, "You studied in Chicago." It was more of a statement than a question.

"Is it that obvious?" he asked, pulling off his sunglasses.

"Only to someone who…" Randy's voice trailed off. "Gotta get back to work, bud," he said, turning away.

The young architect hurriedly replaced his sunglasses and retreated to the site trailer, while Randy attacked the girders forcefully. Idiot, he cursed himself. What had possessed him to start that conversation? That was all behind him; he took comfort in the anonymity of the crew. Life as a working stiff might be dull sometimes, but his needs were few and easily met.

A couple of hours later, the whistle blew and, grabbing his lunchbox and jacket, he hopped on a bus. Letting himself into his second-floor walk-up, he pulled a beer out of the refrigerator and drained it in several large gulps. He gnawed absentmindedly on a cold chicken leg while he read the paper, but soon realised that the short encounter he had with the architect that day had unsettled him more than he had been willing to admit.

He pulled a portfolio out from under his bed and began to leaf through the drawings it contained. Some of them had the power to make him smile: a horrendous Beaux-Arts structure and a pretentious Art Deco cinema. Several were not unlike the current job and one, covered in drink rings and cigarette burns, made him close his eyes and shake his head as if to banish the memories it evoked.

Unwilling to sit alone any longer, he headed out and walked to a small tavern a couple of blocks away. As he had hoped, John was at the bar listening to the ball game.

The two men nodded at each other and drank in companionable silence until the game ended, Randy handing John a five-dollar bill. "That'll teach you to bet against the Dodgers," John crowed. "They're going all the way this year. I can feel it."

Randy found the fanaticism of Brooklyn fans somewhat amusing; he was a fan of his native St Louis's Cardinals, but with nothing of the fervour that the Dodgers' fans seemed to possess.

"It'll happen next year. Isn't that what you guys say?" Randy mocked.

"It's going to happen this year," John grinned. "I know it." He ordered them another beer, paying for it out of his winnings. "I saw you talking to Bourne today. Were you reminiscing about St Louis or Chicago?"

"I read somewhere that he was from St Louis, but I'd forgotten. And I have nothing to say about Chicago. You know that."

"I'm sorry," John said. "I didn't mean to bring it up. It's just that it seemed kind of odd to see the pair of you talking like that. By rights, you should be working together or competing for the same jobs."

"By rights a lot of things should be different," Randy pointed out. "You shouldn't have had to leave college at the end of your freshman year."

"Well, my dad had died. My mom needed help."

No, Randy thought. It wasn't fair. John had given up his future to look after his younger brothers and still lived at home caring for his ailing mother; a couple beers and a ball game the highlight of his day. He remembered how John had glowed with pride when his younger brother had been accepted to medical school and how he'd worked three jobs to put him through. He'd never forget how John had given him a place to stay and a job when his own life had collapsed around him.

"So, what did you think of Bourne? He seems awfully young, but you were when you got your first big project."

"We only spoke for a second," Randy said, reluctant to share his brief conversation, "but his stuff is good."

"Of course it is," John laughed. "It reminds me of what you were doing." When Randy refused to answer, he went on. "Are you over your case of the creeps about this building now that you've met him?"

"It was never the building that bothered me. It's the people. That Irish union guy, who keeps showing up, can only be bad news."

"Who? That guy they call Sheamus? There's one of those sniffing around every project. I wouldn't worry too much," John answered.

"And what about that contractor? He walks around with this shit-eating grin on his face, but I wouldn't trust him any further than I could throw him."

"Jericho?" John asked. "I know he seems a bit seedy, but Levesque likes him and he's the guy who signs our cheques."

"I know," Randy said. They spent a few more minutes chatting, John reminding Randy that he had promised to come to his house for dinner that Sunday, before leaving the tavern. Randy watched John disappear around the corner to walk the few blocks to his home and headed back to his own small apartment.

Lying in his bed, listening to the street sounds of New York, Randy thought again about his encounter with the young architect. How odd that both of them should have come from St Louis and studied in Chicago. John was right: under other circumstances they would have likely been crossing paths professionally. But he steadfastly refused to dwell on what might have been.

And, just as he was about to fall asleep, he remembered the instant when Bourne had raised his sunglasses and wondered who he had pissed off badly enough to have acquired that black eye.

XXXXXXXXXX

Evan lay in his bed in his upper East-Side apartment puzzling over his strange conversation with the construction worker that day. It had lasted only a few seconds, but it had haunted him all day. Why did he have a feeling he had seen that man before? Maybe he'd been on the crew on another of his projects? And the comment about I-beam mullions? The way he'd recognised the Chicago school immediately? Those were not observations commonly made by site-workers. Still, maybe he was being guilty of the worst form of snobbishness: assuming that a working man had no knowledge or interest beyond his own world.

That was one of the reasons why he had come to New York. Everything seemed bigger and louder and bolder here. After the stuffiness of his parents' home and his convention-bound childhood, every day in the most exciting city in the world seemed like an adventure waiting to happen. When he had won the commission to design this middle-income apartment block he had leased a two-bedroom apartment in the city and, with more commissions coming his way, he knew he would soon have to look for space and move his office from his second bedroom.

He tensed as he heard a key in the lock and held his breath as the other man lurched unsteadily into the room.

"You've been drinking." The words were out before he thought about them.

"So?" he said as he stripped off his clothes and climbed nude into the bed.

Evan closed his eyes and prayed that the other man was intoxicated enough to fall asleep immediately, but he was not to be so lucky. He fumbled with Evan's pyjama pants, pulling them down as he pushed himself between his buttocks.

"Chris, no!" Evan gasped even as the blond-haired man sank roughly into him. Evan gritted his teeth, determined not to let the cries of pain escape him as the other man thrust brutally. His sensitive nerve endings on fire, Evan squeezed his eyes shut and waited for it to be over. Chris reached around and grasped Evan firmly. It was bad enough to have to endure this, Evan thought; he was damned if he was going to enjoy it. He tried to push Chris's hand away, but received a ringing slap across his ear and stopped fighting.

The pain had begun to recede and Evan had begun to respond to Chris's skilful hand pumping his shaft when Chris hissed into his ear, "Say it!"

This was the part he hated the most: worse than the pain of the forced intrusion, worse than the blows, worse than being co-opted into enjoying his own degradation.

"No!" he muttered, shaking his head frantically.

Chris struck him across the ear again and increased the force of his assault. "Say it!"

"No," he whispered. "Not like this!"

Chris continued to handle him mercilessly and, in spite of the pain and humiliation, Evan felt his own response building. "Say it, damn you!" He punched Evan in the kidney with all his force just as he felt his hand become sticky with his seed. "Say it!"

And Evan, his ears ringing from the slaps, blinded with pain from the blow to his kidney, finally sobbed out the words that Chris had been waiting to hear.

"I love you."

Chris collapsed atop Evan with a harsh cry while Evan lay perfectly still, determined not to give Chris the satisfaction of pulling away. Finally, Chris rolled away from him and Evan rose painfully, making his way to the bathroom.

The man on the bed opened his eyes and stared at him blankly. Looking at the blood trickling down Evan's leg, he said, "You should have said it sooner."

XXXXXXXXXX

It hadn't always been that way. Shortly after graduating from the Illinois Institute of Technology, Evan had been offered a position with a well-respected firm in Chicago. He had met Chris during a site visit of one of their projects. Evan had realised the truth about himself while in high school in St Louis and had, during his time in Chicago, discovered a few discreet spots for men such as he. Chicago might be a large city, but the community of men who shared his leanings was small and one night he had arrived at a small club to see Chris leaning against the bar. The blond man had given him a slow, knowing smile and it had begun.

Evan's experience hadn't gone much beyond a few fumbling encounters and Chris introduced him to a new world. In the beginning he had been sensitive and loving, but, somewhere, his nature had begun to sour and he began to drink heavily. The first time he had stuck Evan, he had burst into remorseful sobs and they had put it behind them. But over the months, the drinking had increased and so had the outbursts. Finally, Evan had broken it off, but Chris had begged for another chance and had sworn that he was a changed man.

Perhaps, if hadn't been feeling so alone in the world, he wouldn't have relented, but his parents had been killed in a car accident a couple of months earlier. He was surprised to discover that his share of his parents' estate was enough to allow him to leave the firm and strike out on his own. Chris had suggested that they move to New York, insisting that a fresh start was just what they needed. Excited by the prospect, Evan had agreed.

At first, it seemed that Chris had been right; they had never been happier. Manhattan had become their playground and they had explored it like gleeful children. He could still remember how Chris's eyes had shone with pride when he got his first commission, but as his success increased, so had Chris's drinking. He had become sullen and resentful and, eventually, the day had come when he turned his anger onto Evan.

Did he still love Chris, he wondered sometimes. Yes, but with every blow, every forced encounter, every abusive word, he loved him less. Soon the day would arrive when the last of his love would be gone, but when that happened would he be able to send him away? He didn't know and underneath it all was a gnawing fear that Chris would never let him go. Like him, Chris had no family left and neither had any close friends in New York. So they hung on to each other, tied by a sick dependency; more frightened of being alone than of being bound in a relationship that was destroying them both.

That Saturday morning Chris joined him in the kitchen and poured himself a cup of coffee. They had already gone past the stage of apologies and recriminations. What happened in their bedroom was ignored outside of it.

"I'm going to my place for a day or two," Chris stated. He rented a small studio apartment in the East Village. That was part of the pattern: after an encounter like the night before Chris would disappear for a couple of days, only to return loving and affectionate until the whole sordid cycle started again.

Evan nodded wordlessly and returned to his paper, sipping his coffee.

"I saw you talking to one of the workers yesterday."

Evan took a deep breath while he considered his response. He suspected Chris had someone in the Village, but he knew that he could fly into a rage if he thought he was interested in someone else.

"It was just a couple of words. You know how I like watching them work." Which was true; he could stand for hours watching a crew at work, fascinated by the actual construction. And in this instance, watching his own design translated to reality filled him with a sense of awe he couldn't quite describe.

"Well, that one was certainly worth watching," Chris said. He was smiling, but there was nothing friendly about it.

"I hadn't noticed," he answered mildly.

"You know who he was, don't you?"

"How could I know that?"

"It was Randy Orton."

"No!" Evan exclaimed, genuinely astonished. No wonder he looked familiar. He'd won several prizes at IIT; even his student designs were spoken of with reverence. Although he had graduated a few years before Evan started there, his name was familiar to all the students. Within a couple of years, he had made a name for himself. Evan remembered his picture in the Tribune on several occasions and, of course, later, he had been in all the national papers.

"How on earth did _he_ end out on a crew in New York?" Evan asked.

"He didn't tell you? I thought for sure you two were yakking away about St Louis and your beloved alma mater, IIT," Chris said nastily. "You know, worshipping at the shrine of Mies."

Evan flushed. True, he had rambled on endlessly about Ludwig Mies van der Rohe, but only because he had felt so privileged to study under him. This was another of Chris's little habits: to make fun of people and things he admired and to poke fun at him for his admiration. And to make matters worse, he had been, although briefly.

"I told you. I only spoke to him for a second, but how did he end out there?"

"It seems he and the foreman Cena, were college roommates. Cena was studying engineering when he had to quit. He took a job in construction and gave Orton a job when it all came tumbling down around him." Chris concluded his statement with a cynical laugh.

"That's not funny, Chris," Evan said. "A lot of people died in that accident."

"They sure did. And it was your buddy Randy's fault."

"Don't be stupid, Chris," Evan said indignantly. "Randy's not my buddy. I've never even met him. And that accident wasn't his fault. They were using sub-standard materials-" He stopped abruptly as Chris flushed with anger. "I-I didn't mean to call you stupid," he stammered.

"But you were thinking it, weren't you?" he asked silkily.

"No!" Evan paled his eyes huge. He tried to get out his chair, but Chris bore down on him before he could.

Fifteen minutes later, he examined his face anxiously in the bathroom mirror. Not as bad as he thought. Still, his lip was badly swollen and his ribs hurt from the kicks he had received. Hopefully, nothing was broken; he didn't think they would believe he had been mugged again at the Emergency Room.

Shaking from head to foot, he stood under the shower for a long time, letting the hot water soothe his aching body. As he towelled dry, he noticed, with a detached fascination, the bruises already forming on his torso and realised that this was the first time it had happened when Chris had not been drinking; and recognised, in that instant, that it wouldn't stop until one of them was dead.


	2. Chapter 2

Randy groaned as he peered at the bedside clock. Why was it he was wide awake at 5:00 a.m. on weekends, but could have thrown the clock against the wall when it went off at the same time on Monday morning? Realising that it would be futile to try to go back to sleep, he climbed out of bed and padded over to his small kitchen. He brewed coffee and fixed himself a fried egg sandwich and wondered how to spend the day.

He might see a movie later, he thought; there was a game today. Maybe, he'd go around the corner and listen to it later. Perhaps John would be there. But, even as he dressed, he knew where he was headed. He should have kept his mouth shut yesterday; even those couple of sentences roused memories that he preferred to leave alone. And what insanity had led him to open his portfolio last night? Well, if he was going to wallow, he might as well go all-out, he thought. He left the apartment and hailed a cab, giving the driver a Park Avenue address.

A short time later he was standing in front of the partially-constructed Seagram

Building. Not much more than a bare skeleton yet, Randy could picture the completed structure in his head: could see the smooth curtain of glass and decorative exposed bronze I-beams. _Firmitas_, _Utilitas_, _Venustas_, Vitruvius had preached: solidity, utility and beauty. Many people found this style soulless and sterile, but to Randy, Vitruvius's words found perfect expression in the starkness of the master's work.

He had been staring at the steel girders for some time when he realised that he was no longer alone. Somehow, he was not surprised to see Bourne standing next to him.

"You, too?" he asked, smiling down at the smaller man.

"I come here most weekends. I love walking the streets. You?"

"Once in a while I need to see something like this."

"Worshipping at the shrine of Mies," Evan said, echoing Chris's scornful words of that morning without embarrassment. This man _knew_.

Both men peered up at the structure. "What would you change, if you could?" Randy enquired.

"Nothing!" Evan exclaimed vehemently. "Not one single rivet."

Randy laughed; he was so adamant. "Lever House next?"

"You bet!"

They made their way along Park Avenue, passing the Italian Renaissance Racquet and Tennis Club without a glance to stand before the 24 storey glass-curtained building.

"It's beautiful, isn't it?" Randy stated.

"It's perfect. I could never design something like that in a million years. But you could have." Evan had to ask the question that had bothered him. "Why did you stop, Randy? Why are you working on a crew, building them instead of creating them?"

"You know what happened in Chicago. Everybody knows."

"I know, but it wasn't your fault. It was the contractor; he wasn't using the material you specified."

"No, he wasn't. But it was my fault. The project was running over budget. I refused to change the design in any way. He brought in shady sub-contractors and suspect materials to make up the shortfall. I was so wrapped up in my vision of what it should be, I refused to compromise. Dozens of people were killed and injured when it came down; it was all my fault."

Evan stared at Randy, trying to imagine the demons that plagued him. A worker had been killed on one of his early projects; his death still haunted him.

As Evan remained silent, Randy continued, "I was so protective of the integrity of my design that it cost people's lives. Howard Roark had nothing on me."

Evan flinched at Randy's mention of Ayn Rand's megalomaniac hero of The Fountainhead. Chris liked to jeer at him when he got into his stride about what architecture should be by calling him Howard Roark.

Suddenly he realised that Randy was staring at his swollen lip. Forcing a smile, he said, "It was an accident. I can be sort of clumsy at times."

Somehow Randy doubted it, but, anxious to change the subject, he asked, "What's next?"

"Manufacturers Trust Building," Evan replied promptly, leading Randy down Fifth Avenue to the bank completed a year earlier.

"No question," Randy said, "Bunshaft is a genius. Imagine designing just one building this perfect, but this and Lever House, as well."

"So are you," Evan stated flatly. "That's why it's a crime you're not designing anymore."

"I think you over-estimate me, but, based on what I've seen of your work, you're on your way."

Evan turned bright pink, unable to hide his pleasure at Randy's comment, "Do you really think so? You're not just being nice?"

"I assure you," Randy said, "I am rarely nice. And I wouldn't lie about something like this." Smiling at Evan's confusion, he asked, "Where else do you like to go?"

"U.N. Plaza."

"Then let's go," he said hailing a cab.

"Some people think it's sterile and arrogant," Evan said marvelling at the Secretariat Building, "but look at it: nothing wasted, nothing excessive. I feel so lucky to be able to live in this city; so privileged to be able to visit something like this whenever I want. Just think what it must have been like for Le Corbusier to be given the opportunity to design this."

"You obviously have strong feelings about this."

"Yes, I do. Think of what this building represents. Imagine being part of that."

Randy was touched by Evan's enthusiasm; had he ever been that idealistic? His childhood had robbed him of most of his illusions and his quest for success and its tragic aftermath had leached out most of his faith in human nature. His friendship with John was the only human connection he had.

"Think about what your current project represents," he said.

Evan swallowed hard; he had tried, once, to share with Chris his pride in being part of the project, but Chris had laughed and told him it was just an apartment building. It wasn't like he was designing the U.N. Headquarters, he'd said. But Randy _knew_.

"Exactly," he said. "You may not be preserving world peace, but you're providing homes for over a hundred families."

Unable to speak, Evan merely nodded as Randy went on, "Do you know what was the most satisfying job I ever had? It was right at the beginning of my career: a small extension to a house to build a nursery for a couple who'd given up all hope of having children. I haunted that site. I personally inspected almost every nail and every brick." He laughed wryly at the memory. "The AFL sent one of the union guys after me because I wouldn't leave the builders alone."

Evan smiled "Do they still live there?"

"No. Their son contracted Scarlet Fever when he was two and died. They sold the house to some developers. It was demolished," he said bleakly. "There's a gas station there now."

"I'm sorry. I'd like to see those drawings."

"They're gone. I burnt them."

They walked across the plaza in silence until Randy spoke again. "I'll grant that this," he gestured to the complex around them, "is special, but Lever House, the Seagram Building: they're just businesses. You're building homes; that's important."

"I'd like to think so. Listen, I'm getting hungry. Do you want to get some lunch? We could find a deli."

"I have a better idea," Randy said. "Do you like baseball?"

"Yes, but I'll admit that I find the fans here a bit overwhelming."

"Well then," Randy laughed, "be prepared to be overwhelmed."

He hailed a cab and gave the driver a Brooklyn address. Soon, Evan found himself on the other side of the East River not far from the Brooklyn Navy Yard. As they pulled in front of a tavern on Bridge Street, Randy told him, "This place makes the best meatloaf in town and we can listen to the game."

Evan soon discovered that Randy was telling the truth as they both demolished enormous plates of meatloaf and mashed potatoes while the room filled with Dodgers' fans waiting for the game to begin. John walked in just as the game started, surprise evident on his face at the sight of Randy arguing in a friendly manner with the young architect.

Randy waved him over. "I ran into Bourne in Midtown, staring at the buildings."

"And I suppose the pair of you spent the whole morning looking at skyscrapers, complaining that nobody appreciates them like you do?"

Randy and Evan exchanged a glance and burst into laughter. "Pretty much," Evan said. "But Randy needed some moral support in a room full of Dodgers' fans."

John cast a look at Randy, who was smiling and looking more relaxed than he remembered seeing him for years. Conversation was impossible once the game started and the other patrons began to cheer their team on. The three men drank beer and bantered amiably throughout the game and Randy handed John another five-dollar bill as Brooklyn slaughtered the Pirates 6-0.

"Randy's going to make me a rich man this year, I'm telling you," John exulted, pocketing his winnings. Bidding both men goodnight, he left the tavern.

"I suppose I should be heading back," Evan said. "But thank you, Randy. I've really enjoyed myself today."

"So have I," Randy replied. "I only live a few blocks from here; there's something I'd like to show you."

As they walked down the street, Evan stared appreciatively around him. "What a great neighbourhood," he exclaimed.

"I know," Randy answered. "It's one of those surprising little pockets you find in a city this size. John lives in a brownstone a little way from here, but around here, you could almost be in New England." He gestured around him at the clapboard houses of the Vinegar Hill neighbourhood of Brooklyn. "You should check out the Commandant's House in the Navy Yard sometime. It's a Federal, designed by Charles Bulfinch."

"I'd like to see that," he replied, following Randy up the stairs to his apartment.

"It's a bit of a mess," Randy said, "but I wasn't expecting company." He led Evan into a small room with a workbench and tools. His apartment might have been messy, but absolute order reigned in this room. All the tools had obviously designated spots and the materials were neatly stored according to type.

"I haven't entirely given up designing," he said, pointing to a chair that sat against one wall.

"You did this?" Evan exclaimed, admiring the sleek lines and beautifully tailored upholstery. "It's beautiful."

"It's sort of a hobby. There are a couple of stores that buy them from me." He handed Evan a book.

Speechless, Evan leafed through page after page of exquisitely rendered drawings of chairs, tables and cabinets.

"I'm sorry. I have to say it again. Why are you working on a crew, instead of doing what you are meant to do? It's criminal to waste all this talent. It's a _sin_." He shook his head in disbelief. "You could be another Frank Lloyd Wright."

"Now I think you're getting carried away."

"No I'm not," Evan said, vehemently. "To see this kind of genius; it just makes me feel…humble; privileged. I really don't know what else to say."

Randy came to stand very close to Evan. He traced one work-roughened fingertip over Evan's swollen lip.

"Who did this to you?" he whispered.

Evan stepped back slightly. "N-No one," he stammered. "I told you: it was an accident."

"I don't believe you. I saw you holding your side a couple of times today. You've got a busted rib; cracked, at the very least."

"I fell. I can be a real klutz sometimes," he said desperately.

"And I suppose you got that eye walking into a door?"

Crimson with shame, Evan stared at the ground in silence.

"Was it one of those thugs who like to beat up men like us?"

I don't know what you're talking about," he said stonily.

"All right," Randy said blandly, turning away from him. "Would you like a beer or something?"

"No thanks. I think I had better be heading home."

"And where might that be?"

"East sixties," Evan said, relieved to have steered away from such dangerous waters. "I'd love to live somewhere interesting like this, but, for the time being, it will have to do."

He and Randy walked out to the sidewalk and were soon able to flag down one of the city's ubiquitous yellow taxis. Just before he climbed in, Evan looked up at Randy. "Thank you," he said. "For everything," he added softly. For just a second, their eyes met and Randy let his fingers brush against Evan's as he held the door frame.

"My pleasure," he said turning away and heading back inside.

XXXXX

They used to call his mother accident-prone, Randy recalled. He remembered her strained laughter some mornings as she tried to joke about how clumsy she was, showing fresh bruises as proof. But then he would hear her weeping in the bathroom as she dressed to go to church, to go to confession and to pray for his father's soul.

Worse, however, than the brawls, was the aftermath, when he and his brother and sister would huddle together trying to shut out the meaty sounds of flesh slapping on flesh, their father's grunts and their mother's cries. His mother had died just after he turned eighteen and his father had followed her six months later. Randy could still remember his anger that the bastard couldn't even leave her alone in death. With his sister, pregnant and married at seventeen to a man just like their father and his brother dead in Korea, he was alone, but that wasn't really anything new.

He'd spent several years as an adolescent fighting the truth, but when he went to college on a scholarship he had finally come to accept what he was. There had been one or two relationships, nothing serious, but the need to keep his real self hidden had made him aloof and unapproachable and, today, John was his only friend. After he arrived in New York, he had tried out the club scene a few times and there had been several anonymous encounters and one booze-sodden weekend in Provincetown last summer, but he had found the entire business too depressing to pursue.

He flopped onto his couch with a beer, thinking about the day: exploring the city with Evan, listening to the ball game with Evan, showing Evan his drawings and, finally, his questions and Evan's refusal to answer them. How had he known? How had he recognised that Evan's needs were the same as his own? He wasn't sure, but he _knew_.

A prickle on the back of his neck made him sit up straight. Last summer in Provincetown! Writhing with shame at the memory, he realised where he had seen the blond contractor before. In that instant, everything fell into place: Evan and Jericho. _Evan and Jericho_! Jericho was the one who was doing those things to Evan. Suddenly he noticed that he was clutching his beer can so tightly the sides had caved in.

Why should he care? Why should he care beyond mild regret that a seemingly nice guy was someone else's punching bag? Maybe Evan liked it; some did. But somehow, he knew that wasn't true. Something in his eyes when he asked him, something in the tone of his voice when he made his denials; his embarrassment; his shame: all of these things told him that Evan was slowly dying inside and would soon drift away to become one of the walking dead like his mother had been.

XXXXX

"So, what's the story about you and Bourne?" John asked.

He and Randy had just finished eating dinner and were washing the dishes together while John's mother rested. He didn't talk about it much, but Randy knew that John's mother had only a few months left. She had been very good to him and it broke his heart to see her growing thinner and frailer every week. As for John, except for saying that he prayed she wouldn't suffer in the end, he bore it with same unfailing good grace that he had everything else that life had rained down on him.

"No story," Randy answered. "We ran into each other at the Seagram site and got to talking."

"He must have made quite an impression on you. I can't recall the last time you spent more than an hour with someone else."

"He did," Randy said without thinking.

"Do you think anything might come of it?" John asked.

"What do you mean?" Although Randy knew what John was asking. It was a constant source of amazement to him that John accepted what he was without judgement.

"Well, you know," John said uncomfortably. "I thought that maybe he was –um, you know. Like you."

"You mean queer?" he said grinning as John nodded, red-faced. "Anyway, he's taken."

John noticed the shadow that crossed Randy's face and felt a pang for his friend. From what he'd seen yesterday, someone like Bourne was just what Randy needed. But, at the moment, there was something more important he had to tell him.

"There's going to be a new guy on the crew tomorrow," he said. "I had to get rid of one the guys; he was boozing it up too much."

"God, I hope that Irish guy from the union doesn't come after you. I wouldn't like to be on his bad side."

"I squared it with the union and the new guy's a member. He used to be a glazier in Oklahoma and God knows we need a good one with the amount of glass going into this project."

Randy whirled to face John, dripping soapy water all over the floor. "A glazier from Oklahoma? Please tell me it's not who I think you're talking about."

"It is," John said, returning Randy's glare. "He got out several months ago and is looking to start over."

"Are you insane? You know what he did!"

"I know what people say he did," John answered. "You would know better than most what actually happened. What do you think some people said when I took you on?"

Randy had the grace to look ashamed. It was true; nobody knew what had really happened, except Swagger and he wouldn't talk about it. "Does he know that I'm on the crew?"

"Yes. I told him that if you weren't okay with it, it wouldn't happen. But Randy, please," John pleaded, "he's desperate." As Randy remained silent, he continued, "Everyone deserves a second chance."

"All right," he said. There was no way he could refuse John, who had stood by him through so much and asked for so little in return. "But keep him away from me."

John sighed with relief and snapped the dishtowel at Randy's behind as bent to wipe up the water he had slopped onto the floor. Randy retaliated by throwing the wet cloth at John and, by the time John's mother came down to see what was causing such a fearful racket, both men were drenched and the floor was covered with puddles.

XXXXX

That night, as Randy lay in bed, he was haunted by the memories of that time in Chicago, the events that had led to the tragedy and his part in it.

Having won most of the student prizes available, he was quickly offered employment with one of the most prestigious firms in the country upon his graduation from IIT. He soon gained a reputation as the _enfant terrible_ of the architecture world, but developers were willing to suffer his arrogance and intolerance for anything but the best in exchange for the distinction of having a tiny plaque on their building that read, "Architect: RKO."

People spoke of him in the same breath as they did the likes of Mies and Gropius. Le Corbusier was said to have spoken well of his work and even the mighty Frank Lloyd Wright had professed an admiration for his insistence that the austerity of his designs allowed the beauty of the material used to shine through. He very publicly thumbed his nose at anyone who called his work cold or soulless, claiming that the luxury of the materials he demanded required only the simplest setting, much like a perfect diamond.

In spite of his constant battles with the developers, whom he dismissed as Philistines and the politicians, whom he called things that could not be printed in the newspapers, he won commission after commission and soon had a cabinet filled with awards, which he went on the record as saying were worth less than the prizes in a Crackerjack box. Realising that his renegade image only added to his cachet, he did everything in his power to cultivate it: arriving at meetings on a motorcycle, covering his arms with tattoos, buzzing his head so that his hair was not much more than stubble and showing up at all but the most important functions wearing blue jeans and an undershirt, puffing on a cigarette. He was photographed scowling on his bike for a profile in the New York Times, in work boots and a hard hat, drinking beer with the crew for the Chicago Tribune and he posed shirtless, gleaming with oil, a cigarette dangling from his lips, admiring his reflection in the plate glass of one his buildings for the cover of Time.

The Chicago project was supposed to be the one that would move him to the next level: a low-income housing building, his innovative use of space had been described as setting a new standard for urban design. But such a high-profile project brought complications with it. The city government was adamant that it stay within budget and Randy was equally determined not to compromise on any aspect of his design. Swagger had been the contractor on the job. Over and over again, he had begged Randy to modify his design, to scale back his requirements, to help him keep the project within budget, but he refused at every turn. Finally, Swagger had stopped asking and Randy chose not too inquire too closely into how he was doing it.

He had been on the west coast when the call came, Swagger weeping openly over the phone. The entire tower had come down, killing more than thirty workers and bystanders. The subsequent investigation had found that Swagger had been cutting corners; he had taken on a sub-contractor, who had guaranteed to stay on budget, which he had done by using second-rate material where it wouldn't show and incompetent labour. When questioned, Swagger had assumed the entire blame, refusing to name any of his suppliers or contacts, even when found guilty of negligent homicide and sentenced to ten years.

As for Randy, he was reviled in every major paper in the country, his arrogance and cockiness forcing the inevitable comparisons to Howard Roark. He spent months in a drunken stupor, his only public comment on the matter being that the difference between him and Roark was that he had been brought down by others and Roark had only himself to blame; a comment that made public opinion of him even worse.

Finally, the day came when he sobered up and realised that he was unemployable. In a rage, he destroyed his drafting table and threw his drafting tools into the garbage, swearing that he would never design again. Thank God for John, who had taken him in, given him a job and steered him away from the self-destructive course he set himself on; he would probably be dead today without him.

Swagger must have gotten paroled, he thought. He remembered their last conversation; he had begged him to give the names of the others involved to the commission appointed to investigate the tragedy, but he had refused. At the time, he wrote him off as a fool, but today he had to admit to a grudging admiration; he certainly wouldn't have protected the others at the cost of his own skin.

It hadn't been the first job they had done together. Although they had frequently butted heads on other jobs, he had liked and admired the other man and today he was deeply ashamed of his behaviour at that time. Hopefully, their contact would be minimal, but once again he experienced that gut feeling that this project was doomed.

XXXXX

After passing a wretched night doubled up with pain, Evan finally went to the Emergency Room on Sunday morning. Avoiding the nurses' eyes, he told them he had fallen down the stairs. X-rays showed two cracked ribs and since there was nothing they could do for him, beyond writing a prescription for some pain-killers, they sent him home.

He spent the rest of the day in the cluttered room that served as an office in his apartment, working on drawings he intended to submit as part of the competition for a church in New England. He was enjoying the challenge of trying to wed his own aesthetic sensibilities, which leaned towards the sparse and austere, to the requirements of a house of worship. He was excited about his drawings and was pleased with how it was taking shape, but found himself wondering about the interior. Mies and Le Corbusier had designed furniture; Gropius had designed door handles as well and Frank Lloyd Wright had gone as far as to design tableware to complement the appointments of his buildings, but he recognised those things as being far beyond the scope of his abilities.

But not beyond Randy's… He shook his head as if trying to banish the thought, but could not repress the prickle that ran up his spine at the memory of the extraordinary drawings he had seen the day before. No more than he could deny the shiver that passed through him as he remembered Randy's finger tracing his lips.

All the more reason to keep away, he told himself fiercely, but the idea wouldn't go away. Would it hurt to ask Randy if he was interested, he wondered. If Chris found out, yes, it would, he told himself grimly. Over and over, he replayed Randy's words in his head. "_Men like us_." Somehow, Randy had known; just as he had understood and shared Evan's feelings about the great towers and what they represented. They weren't just glass and steel and concrete; they were the icons of a city.

But that wasn't all Randy had known. Evan remembered the compassion in his eyes when he asked him about his injuries and how, for just one moment, he had been tempted to open his heart to the other man, to allow himself to be comforted and to escape the shame that haunted him daily.


	3. Chapter 3

Randy exchanged a brusque nod with Swagger on Monday morning and went about his business, seemingly oblivious to the other man's presence at the site. He had, however, been taken aback by the other man's appearance. Swagger had been a big, bluff individual with a booming voice, but Randy recalled his incongruous hobby of making stained glass: how his huge hands could set tiny pieces of glass into place, creating pictures of unbelievable delicacy and beauty. But, today, Swagger was a ghost of his former self, severely underweight and haunted-looking. No doubt several years of prison had taken their toll, but this man looked destroyed.

Over the days, he noticed that he worked hard and kept to himself, rarely exchanging more than a few words with the rest of the crew, but he had seen him in earnest conversation with the red-headed Sheamus from the union. When he spoke of his misgivings to John he had been brushed aside, but he found himself watching Swagger more carefully every day.

The other person Randy couldn't help watching was Jericho. When he thought of Evan, wincing and holding his side, as he climbed the stairs to his apartment, it was all he could do not to go after him with a sledge hammer and when he thought of Evan, scarlet with humiliation, insisting that he was simply clumsy, he could feel himself choking with rage.

Early Friday afternoon, he could feel himself being watched and turned around to see Jericho staring at him, a mocking smile on his face. Forcing himself to remain calm, he gave Jericho a half-smile and was about to return to work when a cab pulled up and Evan got out. Dressed in a business suit and wearing dark glasses, Evan gave him an impersonal smile and hurried over to the site trailer, speaking to Chris briefly on the way. Randy watched Chris approach John, who was impossible to miss in the bright orange shirt his youngest brother had given him for Christmas the year before. John liked to joke that it was the smartest gift he had ever received since it meant that no one could miss him on the site, but Randy knew he would have worn it even if it had been pink, rather than hurt his brother's feelings.

As John disappeared into the trailer, Chris came over to where Randy was working. "What is it about you architects," he asked, "that makes you think you're some kind of movies stars?" As Randy remained silent, he continued," I remember your Time cover, standing there like you were Rock Hudson. Or look at him," he said, gesturing towards the trailer, "wearing sunglasses all the time. You'd almost think he had something to hide. But then we all have things we'd like to hide, don't we? Remember Provincetown?"

Chris was smiling as he said all this, but Randy felt himself grow cold. Somehow, Jericho knew. How he had found out and how much he knew, he wasn't sure, but, somehow, Jericho knew that Randy knew what he was.

Randy shrugged. "That was all a long time ago," he said, turning his back on the other man and going back to work. From the corner of his eye, he saw Evan emerge from the trailer and climb into the waiting cab with Chris.

A few minutes later, John came over to him, grinning from ear-to-ear. "Look what Bourne gave me," he exclaimed, brandishing two tickets. "Great seats for next month when the Dodgers play the Cardinals! He said a client gave them to him and he didn't think he'd be able to make it!"

John was almost child-like in his glee and Randy felt momentary shame. He still had a substantial bank account left over from the days when his career was flourishing; he had offered to pay for a home nurse for John's mother and had been refused, but, not once, had he thought of giving him something so simple that would give him so much pleasure.

"That was very nice of him," Randy said, at a loss to say anything else.

"Wasn't it? He said he really enjoyed listening to the game with us on Saturday and thought that if he couldn't go he wanted to make sure that the tickets went to someone who would enjoy them."

As John bounded back to the rest of the crew, happier than a dog wagging two tails, Randy noticed Swagger standing somewhat away from everyone else and decided to end the silence.

He went to stand next to him, "How are you, Jack?"

"As well as you might expect," he replied, crossing his arms and pulling himself up to his full height.

Randy was not, by any means, a small man, but he had forgotten how Swagger could seem to occupy fully any space he was in. "How do you like New York?"

"I don't," he said. "I'm not a city person. I should never have left Oklahoma," he added bleakly and walked away.

Randy shrugged and went back to work, but he couldn't shake the memory of Chris's words or the emptiness in Jack's eyes.

XXXXX

Chris drummed his fingers restlessly on the armrest of the cab he shared with Evan. "This fucking city," he muttered, glaring at the interminable line of traffic.

"Chris, relax," Evan said. "You're not going to miss your train. We're almost at Penn Station. See?" he said pointing at the massive building.

Chris was spending the weekend in Connecticut at the invitation of Paul Levesque, developer of their current project. "You know there's a rumour going around that the Pennsylvania Railroad want to sell this land. Too bad your buddy Randy won't be asked to design the replacement," he said.

Evan forced himself to remain silent. Ever since Chris had returned late Monday night he had been making sneering comments about Randy Orton, which he had refused to acknowledge. It was with real relief he saw that they had finally pulled up in front of the station.

Chris climbed out of the cab, but leaned his head back inside. "I do hope that Cena and Orton enjoy those tickets you paid through the nose for yesterday," he said and slammed the door shut.

Evan exhaled loudly and asked the driver to take him home. He leaned back and removed his dark glasses.

"That's some shiner you've got there, bud," the driver commented, peering at him in the rear-view mirror. "What does the other guy look like?"

XXXXX

As usual, Randy awoke far too early on Saturday morning. He had gone to the tavern the night before and spent the evening mocking John affectionately as the Dodgers suffered their first loss of the season against the Giants.

He went to his small workroom and told himself that he was reorganising it, but soon realised all he was doing was moving his tools from one side of the room to the other and then putting them back in their original spots. Finally, he gave up the fight and left his apartment, heading back to Manhattan, Midtown and, eventually, Park Avenue.

What was he doing, he wondered as he approached the Seagram site, but all week he remembered Evan saying he came there most weekends and found himself unable to resist visiting the site again. But why shouldn't he seek out Evan's company? They shared a native city and school; they shared a reverence for the gigantic towers of the city and the men who had designed them. Why shouldn't he seek him out? Because he was discredited and disgraced while Evan was on the verge of great achievements, because Evan was involved with a sadistic bully and because he, empty and alone, had nothing he could possibly give Evan.

But none of these arguments could prevent his heart from beating faster when a short, dark-haired figure, wearing dark glasses came into view. They exchanged embarrassed grins and stood, for a while, staring at the steel skeleton of the massive structure.

"John's incredibly excited about those tickets you gave him," Randy finally said. "That was very nice of you."

"I'm glad. I thought I should pass them on to someone who would enjoy them."

"How much did they cost you?" He chuckled at Evan's look of surprise. "You're not a very good liar."

"Okay. I really enjoyed myself last Saturday, but I thought he might be uncomfortable if I just gave them to him," he said. "But I'm glad I ran into you today. I-I'd like to show you something," he stammered, turning bright pink. "We'd have to go to my place. I don't have an office yet."

"You want to show me your etchings?" Randy laughed, but stopped abruptly as Evan flushed an even deeper red.

"We can walk. It's only about ten blocks from here," Evan said heading up Park Avenue.

Very shortly, they had reached his building on East 60th Street and Evan led him into the bedroom that served as his work space. He pulled off his sunglasses and dropped them on a desk, turning to face Randy.

Randy caught his breath at the sight of Evan's left eye, horribly bruised, and his cheekbone, swollen, livid and cut, but his expression, defiant, yet pleading, so reminiscent of his mother's, forced him to hold his tongue.

He put on his glasses and gestured to the drawings on his drafting table. "It's a church in Vermont. I have to submit the final design by the end of August."

Randy looked carefully at the drawings. Some were still rough sketches, some were more detailed, but they conveyed Evan's vision of a structure married to the landscape that surrounded it. He could picture it in winter, its sharp lines mirroring the bare trees, in the fall, when the multi-coloured leaves would be reflected against its glass surfaces, the first tender shoots of spring in sharp contrast to the native Vermont granite cladding and in the summer, when the worshippers could raise their eyes to a canopy of green visible through the glass panels in the roof.

"It's beautiful. I've never seen anything like it," Randy said. "You've taken everything we were taught in Chicago and made it your own."

Evan swallowed hard, "Thank you," he said, his eyes growing bright. "But I didn't ask you here just to show you my drawings. I want to carry it inside. I want the interior, the pews, the altar, everything, to be part of a whole, but I can't do that. You could."

"What are you asking me?"

"I don't know, but ever since I saw your work last week, I've been thinking about this. If you even had a couple of ideas."

Randy was silent for several minutes. Then he took up a pad and pencil and began to sketch. For more than twenty minutes, he worked furiously, tearing off many sheets, crumpling them up and throwing them across the room, attacking the paper with such force that he broke several pencils, which he hurled onto the floor before grabbing another. Finally, he shoved a wad of paper at Evan.

He leafed through them, speechless. Although only the roughest of sketches, he knew that this was exactly what he had been looking for. How had Randy done it? With only the briefest glimpse of his drawings, he had grasped his vision and enlarged it.

They worked together silently all afternoon, Evan modifying his drawings as Randy sketched pews, choir stalls, pulpit, lectern and an altar.

"Do they want a permanent baptistery? Then they're going to need a font," Randy said as he bent his head back to his pad. "It should be carved from granite. You'll need a master stonemason. What about the windows? How do you feel about stained glass?"

"Frankly, I'm not too crazy about it, but they're a well-to-do congregation. I imagine they will expect some. It's just that I want a muted colour-scheme; I don't see how stained glass fits in."

"I know somebody," Randy began, but caught himself. "Never mind. He'd never go for it."

Evan removed his glasses and stretched. Rubbing the bridge of his nose, he said, "Randy, I can never thank you enough for this. I'll make sure that you get credit for your part."

"Don't bother," he said. "I don't think there are too many people out there who would care to see my name attached to any project. And please, don't thank me; just do one thing for me."

"Anything."

"Stop lying to me. You didn't get that eye in an accident, any more than that fat lip or those busted ribs last week." He reached out and gently brushed his thumb against Evan's cheekbone.

Evan dropped his gaze and began to fiddle with pencils on his desk.

"It's Jericho, isn't it?'

Unable to meet his eyes, he nodded as Randy tipped his chin up with his forefinger. "Don't be ashamed," he said. "It's not your fault."

"But it is," Evan choked. "I should be able to stop it. I should be able to stand up for myself."

Randy slowly drew his thumb along the length of Evan's jaw line. "You've done nothing wrong," he whispered fiercely. "Don't ever blame yourself for this."

He finally raised his eyes to look at Randy, who was regarding him with infinite tenderness as he lifted his other hand to cup his face and brought his lips down to meet Evan's.

XXXXX

Randy had been watching the men pour the concrete when one of them signalled abruptly to the mixer operator to stop.

"Cody, come and look at this," he shouted over the din.

The young operator hopped out of the truck and came around to look at what had already been poured into the slip form. Randy could see him shake his head as he spoke earnestly to the other man.

"Where's Cena?" he called. "Somebody go find him. Fast!"

Randy saw John coming out of the site trailer and loped over to him. "Ted and Cody need you. Something about the concrete."

He watched John hurry over to the two men, who were looking grave and felt himself grow cold. Ted DiBiase and Cody Rhodes were two of the best concrete guys in the city, as their fathers had been before them, and, in Ted's case, his grandfather. It was something of a joke in the construction trade that blood didn't run in their veins; concrete did. If those two thought there was something wrong, there definitely was.

"What's the problem?" he asked as John made his way back to the trailer.

"It's no good. Ted says it full of ground-up rubble. Thank God they only just started pouring today, but I'm going to have to get the engineer in to check what they poured last week. And I have to get hold of Jericho; we've never had problems like this before."

"Did he change suppliers?"

"That's the only explanation I can think of."

Suddenly, John looked tired. Randy knew he'd been up most of the night with his mother and determined that he was going to get John some help at home, no matter what it took.

"Be careful," he said. "A lot of these suppliers are – connected, if you know what I mean."

"I know," John sighed, rubbing his face tiredly as he turned to go back to the trailer.

Randy followed him. "Maybe someone ought to let Bourne know what's going on," he said with studied casualness.

"I'm sure Jericho will," John answered, hiding a smile as he watched Randy pocket a business card lying on the table.

Randy paused in the doorway, "Don't you think it's kind of strange that this kind of thing should happen after Swagger shows up?"

"Don't start jumping to conclusions. It's probably just one of those things; I'll get Jericho on it right away."

Randy looked doubtful, but said no more. This can't be happening, he thought as he made his way across the site, memories of Chicago assailing him. Evan should be told, he decided, and he certainly didn't trust Jericho to do it. He pulled the business card from his pocket. "Evan Bourne, Architect," it read with a phone number in the bottom right corner. And he went back to work, trying to convince himself that this was the only reason why he needed Evan's phone number.

XXXXX

Evan spent all Sunday working feverishly on his drawings for the church. Held in the grip of the inspiration provided by Randy's ideas, he drank pot after pot of coffee, ate whatever first came to hand when he reached into the refrigerator and snatched only a few hours of sleep on the sofa in his office. By lunchtime Monday, he was feeling light-headed and sick from lack of food and sleep. A shower, he decided, followed by a brisk walk and some lunch should set him right. Carefully gathering up Randy's drawings and his own, he locked them away and headed to the bathroom.

Twenty minutes later, freshly showered and shaved, he retrieved his mail from the floor of the front hall and opened his door to pick up the Sunday New York Times that he had not bothered to fetch the day before.

"Evan! Oh my dear, what happened to you?"

"This?" He touched his cheek and shrugged. "I was at a very crowded club the other day and caught an elbow. It's so embarrassing." He rolled his eyes and managed a weak laugh for his neighbour across the hall, a stylish widow in her late forties.

"Have you had it looked at? Let me send Liz over."

"Now Ruth, that's not necessary." Evan had to repress a smile; Liz was his neighbour's pretty daughter, who had lost her fiancé in Korea. Her mother's only aim in life seemed to be to find her a husband. But she had studied nursing briefly and he knew his neighbour's concern was genuine and well-meant, so he suggested that she stop by later that afternoon.

Just as he shut the door, the phone rang. Picking it up, he was astonished to hear Randy's voice on the other end. "Evan, I need to see you. It's very important."

"I –I don't think that would be wise," he stammered.

"Please. There are some things going on here I think you should know about. Can I come over later? I'd rather not discuss it over the phone."

Evan reluctantly agreed and ended the call. Thank God Chris wasn't due back from Connecticut until tomorrow. He shuddered to think what would happen if Chris found Randy in his apartment.

Leaving his building, he walked briskly to a nearby deli and bought a sandwich, which he ate as he walked the streets, pausing occasionally to stare up at the great glass towers of the city. The thought that his project would become part of this famous skyline filled him with a sense of awe.

And with his head in the clouds, he finally let himself think about Randy's kiss; how his arms had slid around the taller man as he pressed himself against him; how he had returned his kisses hungrily, opening himself up to his embrace and how, finally, he had pushed him away.

"I'm sorry," he had choked. "I can't."

Randy had caressed his bruised cheek again. "No, I'm sorry. I had no right to do that." he had said and left.

A few hours later, he was sitting with Liz in his living room, both laughing over her mother's transparent attempts at matchmaking, when his doorman called to say he had a visitor.

"I should be going, then," she said.

"No, please don't," he answered. "At least stay and finish your tea."

Randy raised an eyebrow at the sight of a pretty young woman sitting on Evan's couch as he quickly made introductions.

"Liz is my neighbour," he said. "A nurse in need of a patient."

"A nurse? Really?" Randy asked.

"Not exactly. I studied for a short time, but after my father passed away I came back home to stay with my mother," she said. "I was telling Evan, just now, how I wish I could go back, but I suppose it's too late now. I'm just so bored and I wish I could make a little money of my own."

"You know," Randy said, declining Evan's offer of tea, "that's very interesting. I have a good friend who left school for much the same reason." He looked carefully at her; something about her gentle demeanour and expression made him put aside his habitual distrust and cynicism. "His mother is very ill now; she probably has only a couple of months. He desperately needs some help, but I don't suppose you'd be interested in looking after some sick, old lady in Brooklyn."

"Why would you say that?" Liz retorted, her eyes flashing with momentary anger. "I went into nursing to help people. Or are you one of those who think a girl only takes up nursing to catch a rich doctor?"

"Not at all," he answered smoothly, delighted that his initial impression had been correct. "Would you be interested?"

"Absolutely. It's exactly the kind of thing I'd like to do."

Randy scribbled down her phone number and said he would be in touch with her in a day or two. "One thing, though," he added. "My friend won't be able to pay you very much. I will make up the shortfall myself, to whatever you determine is a fair rate; just make sure he doesn't find out."

"Of course," she said, rising to leave. "He's very lucky to have a friend like you."

"She's right, you know," Evan said after Liz had left. "He is lucky to have a friend like you."

"He saved my life," Randy said simply. "Nothing I could do would ever repay the debt I owe him."

"Then you're both lucky," he said softly, "to have found each other."

"I know."

Evan picked up the teacups and carried them to the kitchen, Randy following him. "What's so important that you needed to see me about?"

Randy leaned against the counter rubbing the back of his neck. "Something's not right at the site; there are problems. I can't quite put my finger on all of them, but I just know."

"What sort of problems?"

"Like today; they were pouring concrete, but it was no good. John's getting the engineer in to check what they've done, so far. He's been trying to get hold of Jericho all day."

"He's in Connecticut. At Levesque's." Evan opened his office door and beckoned Randy inside. "What else?"

Randy sat on the small couch and took a deep breath. "Does the name Jack Swagger mean anything to you?"

He remained silent and thoughtful for a minute. "I've heard it somewhere," he puzzled. "Wait! Wasn't he the contractor on your Chicago job? Didn't he go to prison?"

"Yes, but he's out now. John hired him; he's on the crew. He says he looking to start over. John always does believe the best of people." He shook his head.

"Why shouldn't he? Isn't that better than going around convinced that everyone is only out for himself?" Evan asked.

"Aren't they?"

"No, they're not," he replied angrily. "Look at your friend, John. Look at Liz." His voice softened, "Look at yourself."

"Me?" Randy exclaimed.

"Yes, you! Look at how you're trying to help John! You came over here because you're worried about the project," he said, his voice rising. "Don't you dare try to tell me you don't care!" He leaned against his desk, glaring at Randy.

"You're right," he said quietly. "I do care." He rose swiftly and crossed the short space between them, standing so close their bodies were almost touching. "I care because it's important to you. I couldn't bear to see you brought down like I was. And it breaks my heart to see what Jericho is doing to you."

Evan slipped away from him just as his hand reached out. "That isn't your problem," he said dully. "Don't worry about me that way." Swallowing hard several times, he continued, "But what can I do about these so-called problems with the project?"

"There's a man with the City. He has a great deal of power in the building department. He's the only man I've ever seen take on the unions and win. If you can get him to listen to you, he'll get to the bottom of what's going on."

"But why would he listen to me? All you have are some vague suspicions and one possibly suspect concrete shipment."

"Because I'll come with you. There are some advantages to being somewhat infamous." Randy chuckled grimly. "And when he finds out that Swagger's on the crew, he'll have to get involved."

"Why?" Evan asked. "Who is he?"

"It's Jim Ross. He's Swagger's godfather."

Evan caught his breath in surprise. Anyone who had been involved in construction in New York knew of Jim Ross: a transplanted Oklahoman, known to be ruthless, but fair and incorruptible. He had turned down the plum job of Commissioner of Buildings, preferring to keep out of the public eye as much as possible.

"We can't just stroll into his office and say that you think something is going on."

"We can and we will," Randy said. "I'll set something up as soon as possible. And don't worry," he added, correctly reading Evan's expression. "Jericho will never know that I was here or that we are doing this."

Seeing no point in trying to deny that this was worrying him, he simply replied, "Thank you."

Changing the subject, Randy asked, "How is the church coming along?"

"Really well. Would you like to see?" he asked suddenly shy as he unlocked the drawer.

"Yes," he said, taking the drawings from him. He leafed through them in silence for several minute. "This is incredible," he breathed in wonder. "It's unique; you've found your own style."

"I couldn't have done it without your help," he said, turning pink with pleasure at Randy's comments.

"Then let me keep helping you," he said, brushing his knuckles against Evan's cheek, his hand reaching behind to cup the back of his head. "I've waited my whole life for you," he murmured. "If you were happy, if you were with someone who cared about you, I'd leave you alone. But you're not and you deserve so much better."

Evan stared mutely at him.

"Let me be good to you."


	4. Chapter 4

Chris had returned from Connecticut distracted and worried. Although occasionally bad-tempered, he appeared absent-minded and distant, barely acknowledging Evan's presence most of the time. Evan wasn't sure whether to be relieved or concerned about his current state of mind, but after several days of watching Chris come in late and sit up half the night refilling his glass over and over again, he could keep silent no longer, no matter what the cost.

Finally, at two in the morning a couple of weeks after his return, he went into the living room to find him slumped on the couch, staring into space.

"Chris," he said, taking his hand, surprised at the compassion he felt, "is something wrong? Please tell me."

He turned to look at him, his eyes red-rimmed and swollen. Evan felt his heart twist at the sight of his reddened, puffy features. What had happened to the handsome, blue-eyed man he had loved?

"Why should you care?" he asked his voice thick and raspy.

"Because I care about you."

He stared at him for several long minutes. "You do," he said, shaking his head. "You really do."

"Of course I do. Can you tell me what's wrong?"

"Nothing," he answered sullenly. "Just leave me alone."

XXXXX

That had been a mistake, he realised. Chris was gone when he got up the next day and he had heard nothing from him over the next two weeks. He supposed he was at his place in the East Village, but was reluctant to go looking for him. He was momentarily tempted to visit the site on the chance he was there, but the thought of coming face-to-face with Randy kept him away.

That, however, did not stop his heart from beating faster as he approached City Hall to meet Randy, who had set up their meeting with Jim Ross: a meeting that turned out to be a total bust. The older man had greeted them both politely and listened courteously to Randy's concerns, registering no reaction when told that Swagger was on the crew and had shown them out of his office.

"I don't know, Randy," Evan said. "Maybe you're making too much out this. He didn't seem at all interested."

"I know and I don't understand. There have been a few other things since the concrete. John refused a load of glass; he said it wasn't what had been specified. Some of the equipment has been damaged. The union guy seems to be around all the time."

"What about Swagger? Has he been up to anything?" Evan asked.

"Not that I can tell," Randy answered. "I hardly see him most of the time. For a big guy, he can certainly make himself invisible, but I've seen him talking to that Sheamus several times."

"Do you think this business could be union-related? There's been an awful lot going on with them these days."

This was true; the American Federation of Labour had expelled the International Longshoremen's Association and several others said to have connections with organised crime two years earlier and had just merged with the Congress of Industrial Organisations. It was said that they were looking at cutting ties with the Teamsters. Randy shuddered at the prospect of being involved in some internecine union dispute.

"God, I hope not!" Changing the subject, he added, "John really enjoyed the ball game."

"I guess he did," Evan laughed. "What was the final score? 12-4 wasn't it?" he asked as if he hadn't listened to the entire game, thinking about Randy being there. "I'm glad he had a good time. How are things working out with Liz?"

This time Randy laughed. "Couldn't be better. John's mother loves her, his brothers think she's the greatest and, as for John, he adores her. All day long now, it's, 'Liz says this,' or 'Liz did that.'"

"How is his mother doing?"

"Not well. They think she doesn't have much more than a couple of weeks," Randy said. "She's determined to die at home. She says she came to that house as a bride and she's not leaving it while there's still breath in her."

They laughed as they realised that their supposedly aimless strolling had brought them to the Woolworth Building. "I guess it's unavoidable," Evan said. "We're always going to end up in front of some skyscraper." They spent several minutes admiring the 57 storey structure while poking fun at its neo-Gothic design.

"No bell tower?" Randy mocked. "No gargoyles?"

"Not even a hunchback," Evan said mournfully. "Do you need to get back to the site?"

"No. I have a terrible migraine," he grinned. "What about you?"

"There's nowhere I have to be today," he answered. "Do you want to get some lunch and take a look at Wall Street? We're not far from there."

"We're not far from Brooklyn either," Randy said quietly. "Have you thought about what I said to you last time? Do you want skip lunch and come back to my place?"

When not working, Evan had thought about very little except Randy and his words, "_I've waited my whole life for you_."

"Do you?" he asked again.

"Yes."

XXXXX

Evan followed Randy up the stairs to his apartment, his stomach churning with fear and excitement. As soon as the door closed behind them, he pushed Randy against the wall and kissed him until they were both breathless. "I've wanted to do that since I saw you this morning at City Hall," he whispered.

Randy picked him up effortlessly, supporting his buttocks with one hand while cradling his head with the other. Evan locked his ankles around him, kissing him fiercely as Randy carried him into the bedroom.

Setting him down carefully, Randy tossed his suit jacket aside and pulled off his tie as Evan did the same. He took him back into his arms and buried his face in the crook of his neck, his teeth gently grazing the tender flesh, inhaling his scent. He could feel Evan fumbling with the buttons on his shirt and released him. He removed Evan's glasses and pulled his shirt free of his trousers, opening the buttons deliberately. He pushed Evan's shirt off his shoulders so that it fell to the ground, unheeded, and pulled off his t-shirt as he pushed him down to sit on the edge of the bed.

As Evan removed his shoes and socks he stripped off his own shirt and undershirt, before kicking off his shoes and dropped his trousers, pulling them off with his socks. Finally, he pushed down his shorts, standing naked before him. Evan caught his breath at the sight of Randy, nude, and reached out to caress his lean flanks.

"You are so beautiful," he sighed, drinking in the graceful sweep of his shoulders and exquisitely chiselled chest and abdomen, his sleek haunches and, straining upwards, faintly blue-veined and ivory-pale, his shaft, proudly erect, gleaming with moisture at the tip. Taking it in his hand, he ran his thumb along its length, slowly rubbing the pearl-like drop around the head.

Randy gasped as Evan's mouth closed over him and surrendered himself to the delicious sensation of the pulling and sucking of his warm mouth. He looked down and his eyes met Evan's, fixed on his face. All my life, he thought. I've been waiting for you, for this, all my life. And in that instant he knew that he could no more let Evan go, than he could stop breathing; knew that the void in his heart had been filled by a pair of brown eyes and a wide grin.

He slowly pulled away and dropped to his knees, unfastening Evan's trousers and pulling them down with his shorts. He took Evan's hands and gazed into his eyes. "Know this," he murmured. "After today, I will never let you go. _Never_." He rested his forehead against Evan's thighs, shaking with need and fear.

Evan remained still and silent for several long minutes, then he reached out slowly to stroke the back of Randy's neck. "I know," he whispered.

All my life, he thought, everything I have ever needed is right here. He pushed Evan back onto the bed and covered his body with his own as his lips sought the other man's. Evan held him close, his fingers digging into his shoulders as he strained upwards, returning Randy's kisses with a matching hunger.

Randy kissed him feverishly, his lips seeking and finding the most sensitive spots: behind his ears, the hollow of his throat, the indentation between his shoulder and collar bone, raising his nipples to hard nubs with his tongue; trailing kisses across his ribs and tracing delicate circles around his navel. Evan squirmed and sighed with enjoyment as Randy dipped his head lower.

He drew his tongue slowly along Evan's length, leisurely lapping at the head. Pulling his legs over his shoulders, his long tongue reached out to flicker at the puckered opening, his warm breath passing over his balls. With slow, lazy strokes, he loved Evan intimately, his tongue seeking and gaining the tiniest entrance as Evan gasped with pleasure. Sucking on his index finger, he carefully pushed it inside as Evan's hips rose to meet him.

Right here, right now, Randy thought, here, in my arms, in my bed is everything I have ever needed, everything I have ever wanted. Gently pushing in a second finger, he curled them slightly and heard Evan cry out at he found his most sensitive spot. Taking care to brush against it, he moved his fingers more quickly, spreading them slightly as he prepared Evan to complete the act of love.

"I'm sorry," he gasped as he pulled his fingers away and lowered Evan's legs, "I –I can't wait any longer."

"Neither can I," Evan muttered, rolling over and drawing himself up on his knees as he braced himself with his forearms.

Randy knelt between his spread legs and carefully positioned himself, pushing gently past the first ring of muscle. Evan gave a soft cry, but pushed back against him as he slowly drove himself in to the hilt. Fully seated, he waited until Evan began to move his hips and began to thrust, slowly at first, then more quickly as Evan moved with him. Realising that he could not last very long, and determined to carry Evan with him, he gathered him into his arms and pulled him up so that his back rested against his chest while he grasped Evan's shaft firmly.

Now they moved together easily, Randy's hand pumping rhythmically in time with his thrusts, Evan rising and falling with him. All my life I waited for this, for him, Randy thought as he heard Evan's breathing grow faster. Everything I've ever wanted is here, right now, he thought as Evan tensed and cried out as he achieved release. And in that instant, as he felt Evan's seed on his hand, as he sank his teeth into Evan's shoulder, as he shook with the force of his own orgasm, Randy surrendered his heart into Evan's keeping.

They slumped together, Randy holding Evan tight, as their breathing returned to normal. Finally, he stretched out on the bed, drawing Evan into his arms, both sticky, sweaty and oblivious to those facts. Randy watched the dust motes dance in the sunbeams that poured in through the small window of his bedroom as he gently stroked Evan's hair. He knew that soon, too soon, would come the time to break the silence, to face the realities of their situation and start worrying and fussing about the future, but, for just a few moments longer, he savoured their closeness.

At last Evan sat up and stared helplessly at Randy. "Now what?" he asked, his eyes growing troubled.

"Now," Randy said, deliberately misunderstanding him, "we get cleaned up and dressed. I want to show you something and then we need to go and get something to eat. I'm starving."

"And then?"

"I know," Randy sighed, "but I meant it when I said that I'll never let you go. Whatever it takes to keep you by my side, I'll do."

"No," Evan said, pulling down his head to claim his mouth, "we'll do it. Whatever it takes, we'll do it together. Always."

"Always," Randy murmured pulling Evan into his arms.

XXXXX

An hour later they were cleaned up and dressed, Randy in blue jeans and a t-shirt and Evan in his suit. One of his cuff links had gone missing, but he refused to worry. "It'll show up eventually," he said. "Now, what did you want to show me?" he asked, following Randy into his work room.

"These," he said, gesturing at several exquisitely rendered models of pews, chairs and a lectern. "This should give you some idea of what I was thinking about." He handed Evan a sheaf of papers.

Evan leafed through them with growing wonder, open-mouthed with admiration at the beautifully detailed drawings of furnishings for his church; everything he had sketched earlier and more. "They're not signed," he commented.

"I told you before: nobody would want to see my name attached to a project anymore."

"Then you can tear them up," he retorted, his face stubbornly set. "If I can't submit them with your name on them, I won't use them."

Randy glared at him for a minute and carried them out of the room. He returned a few minutes later, carrying a shabby leather portfolio, which he shoved at Evan. "There. Satisfied?"

Evan opened it to see each drawing had been signed with a flourishing RKO. "Yes," he grinned at him. "I'll get this back to you."

"Keep it," he shrugged. "I won't need it."

Deciding not to argue the point any further, Evan changed the subject. "I thought you said you were hungry."

"Starving. Let's go," he said, leading Evan out of his apartment.

"I forgot," Randy said as he and Evan pushed their way through the crowd in his tavern, "the Dodgers are playing the Pirates tonight, but I see someone who didn't."

"Hey Randy!" John called across the din, "I thought you weren't feeling well today."

"I had a miraculous recovery," he said grinning at John and his companion. "Nice to see you again, Liz. I take it John's trying to convert you."

"And succeeding," he laughed. "She's already forgotten about those damn Yankees."

Although John carefully concealed his surprise at seeing Evan with Randy, Liz exclaimed with delight and insisted that they join them. "John wouldn't take no for an answer," she laughed. "He absolutely insisted on feeding me when I was finished for the day."

"It's the least I could do," he said, turning bright red. "She works so hard all day and she's so good to Mom."

Evan and Randy exchanged glances; here was an unexpected benefit of a chance meeting. There was no question that John was smitten and, judging by the expression on Liz's face, his feelings were returned.

Both men ordered substantial meals and devoured them hungrily as the game came on, the room exploding as the Dodgers went on to win 6-2. Finally, Evan stood reluctantly. "I'm afraid I have to call it a night. It's been nice, seeing you again, John." He turned to Randy, "Why don't we go find a cab so I can see Liz home? Meet us out front."

As Evan hailed a cab, Randy turned to see John and Liz standing in the doorway. Although he did nothing more than touch her arm, the smile on his face told him everything he needed to know. He spoke quietly to Evan as the cab pulled up, "When will I see you?"

"Soon, I promise," he answered, his fingers brushing against Randy's hand as he held the door open for Liz and climbed in after her.

XXXXX

Randy solemnly handed John a five-dollar bill as the cab sped away.

"Well?" John asked.

"You first."

"C'mon. I'll buy you a beer," he said, leading him back inside. As soon as they had taken seats at the bar, he burst out, "What can I say? She's great. I can never thank you enough for finding her. Mom loves her."

"And you? Are you falling for her?"

"Yeah," he said, smiling goofily.

"I think the feeling is mutual," Randy said, smiling at his friend.

"I hope so," he said softly. "Now, it's your turn."

"What?"

"Bourne. Evan Bourne. What were you doing at his place that you should have met Liz in the first place?" As Randy flushed uncomfortably, he continued, "And what about today? Don't try and tell me you weren't together today."

"I went to see him to tell him about the strange things that were happening on the site. There's no way Jericho would tell him," Randy said, his face darkening

Suddenly, John understood. "He's been –um with Jericho, hasn't he? And now he's with you."

"Yes."

"Oh Randy," he exclaimed. "Be careful. I know you think I haven't paid any attention to your comments about Jericho, but I don't think he's a man you want to cross."

"I know."

XXXXX

Liz kept up a running commentary in the cab all the way home about how wonderful John was, how sweet he was to his mother, how kind and generous he was to his brothers and how considerate he was to her. "I can never thank you enough," she said, unconsciously echoing John's words as they walked through the lobby of their building, "you and Randy, both. I told your friend, Chris, this morning when I saw him."

"You saw Chris today?" Evan asked, a great deal more calmly than he felt.

"Yes. He was letting himself in just as I was leaving."

He managed to bid Liz a friendly good night and stood outside his door fighting the urge to run away. Taking out his key, he opened the door slowly.

Chris was sitting on the couch in the dark.

"Evan," he said, blinking as he switched on the light.

"How long have you been here?" he asked trying to keep his voice steady.

"Since this morning. I had _such_ an interesting conversation with your charming neighbour."

"Did you?" he said stowing Randy's portfolio in the closet before coming into the living room.

"Yes. She went on and on and on about how your friend Randy found her a job."

"He did." Evan shrugged off his jacket. "I'm very tired, Chris. I'm going to bed."

"Sit down!" Chris's voice was like the crack of a whip. As Evan sat in a chair, he cocked his head to one side and smiled at him. "Your cuff is undone. I guess your cuff-link is lying in Orton's bed."

Chris stood suddenly and crossed the room, putting his hands on the arms of Evan's chair he leaned closed into him so that their faces were only inches apart. "At least you didn't deny it. You're pathetic, you know. I suppose you think you're in love. I don't blame you; Orton can be pretty irresistible. There's no way you could have refused him; I didn't."

Evan's eyes opened wide and the colour drained from his face. "You're lying," he whispered.

"Next time you see him, why don't you ask lover boy? Ask him about a very drunken weekend in Provincetown. Ask him if he remembers me sucking his cock while he lay on the dock. Ask him if he remembers getting sucked off while I fucked some Puerto Rican boy. Ask him if he remembers jamming his cock in me so hard I thought I'd split in two." He laughed softly, "Ask him if he remembers what we did with that boy on the beach after it got dark."

"I'm not going to listen to this." Evan tried to stand, but Chris pushed him back into the chair.

"Oh, I've known your friend for a long time. Even back in Chicago, I knew him, but he didn't pay any attention to me. He was the world-famous Randy Orton, the bad-boy architect. I was just some guy on a crew. He was quite a stud; I remember how he could walk into a club and take his pick. They were all drooling over him, like you. He'd just walk in and make his choice, sometimes two, but never me, never me." He finally stood straight and went to the sideboard, where he poured two large drinks.

"No thank you," Evan said as he held the glass out to him.

"Take it."

Evan took the glass and sipped from it. "When you're finished your drink I want you to leave."

Chris laughed bitterly. "You're sick; you know that? All these months, no matter what I did, no matter what I said, you'd just look at me with those big brown puppy-dog eyes. And now you're panting after Orton. I suppose you think he's going to rescue you, but do you want to know something? He's no better than me. In fact, he's worse; at least I admit what I am."

"Shut up! Just shut up!" Evan shouted. He slammed his drink down on a side table. "You know nothing about me and you know nothing about him. Just get out! Now!"

He stood and faced Chris, who grasped his arm in a brutal grip, while he stared at him unflinchingly.

"You know what? You're not worth it," he sneered, shoving him away. "I was getting sick of you anyway." He turned on his heel and left.

Evan sank back into his chair shaking from head to foot. Surely it couldn't have been that easy? He made a mental note to call a locksmith while he drained his glass as Chris's words echoed in his head. Did he believe that Randy had done the things he'd said? Yes. Did it bother him? Yes again, but blotting them out was the memory of Randy resting his forehead against his thighs and his words, "_After today, I'll never let you go._" And he knew that whatever Randy had done in the past didn't matter to him in the least and, in refusing to allow Chris's words to hurt him, he removed himself completely from his power.


	5. Chapter 5

Physically and emotionally drained by the events of the day before, Evan woke late. He worked hard for several hours, attending to his correspondence and several other practical matters before retrieving Randy's portfolio to settle down to work on the church. Marvelling again at the drawings, he determined that even if he did not win the commission he would make sure that these drawings were seen; he could not bear the idea that such genius should be wasted. Although he had emptied the folder, he could hear a rustling inside and, on closer examination, discovered a tear in the watered silk lining. Reaching in carefully, he pulled out several folded sheets of paper.

Time had yellowed the papers and they had grown brittle with age. Evan gently unfolded them to discover a series of drawings of a small extension to a house. Scribbled in the corner of one were the words "Vinton Nursery." This was the job Randy had told him about; clearly, some of the drawings had escaped the flames. He felt his eyes prickle as he examined them: the lovingly executed elevations and exterior sketches, the notes suggesting placement of the crib and bassinet and one poignant detail: a tiny X with the words "rocking chair" scribbled next to it, placed by a window. This job had been a true labour of love, he could tell. Maybe Chris hadn't been lying when describing the self-centred hedonist Randy had been, maybe the media had been correct in calling him arrogant, proud and, ultimately, destructive, but he knew otherwise. His generosity towards John, the kindness and tenderness he had shown to him and his obvious love of the act of creation told him so.

He put them away carefully and worked until his eyes began to bother him. Glancing at the clock, he saw that it was late afternoon. Realising that he was free of the hold Chris had over him, he left his apartment and hailed a cab, telling the driver to take him to Water Street.

Standing in front of his own project, which was rising to impressive heights, he was filled again with a sense of awe and wonder. To think that he had had a hand in creating this!

He heard a voice speaking quietly behind him. "It's almost quitting time. Randy's several storeys up; he should be down soon."

Smiling self-consciously at John, he replied, "I wanted to see how it was looking now."

John looked Evan directly in the eye. "Jericho was here earlier, but he's gone now," he said. "Randy will be with you soon."

Understanding the other man's hidden message, he stared back at him in surprise. He saw no condemnation or disgust in his expression, simply a genuine smile as he said, "I'm glad you and Randy have become um – friends. Why don't you come and wait for him in the trailer?"

As Evan followed John into the trailer he asked, "Is it true that you refused a glass delivery?"

"It wasn't me," John said as he led Evan inside. "It was Jack, here." He gestured at a massive figure seated at a small table with a number of drawings spread out before him. "Jack knows way more about glass than I ever will."

After John made introductions and left them, Swagger shrugged. "The glass wasn't up to spec. It happens sometimes; some people think that just because it's clear, you can't tell one sheet from another." He grew momentarily animated, "That's why it's so important to understand the material or else you can get ripped off. Or worse."

"I guess I'm glad that you were here. There's a lot of glass in this building."

"There certainly is. And I'm telling you that you have to watch the suppliers like a hawk. You specified the best, but you'd be surprised how many will try to…" His voice trailed off as he realised Evan was staring at papers on the table.

"Are those yours?" he asked, placing his hand on top of one as Swagger tried to turn it over.

"Yes. It used to be a hobby of mine before –before"

"Before you went to prison?" Evan interrupted. "Look, Mr Swagger"

"Jack."

"Jack then. Look, I know about your past, but that doesn't interest me. These do; they're beautiful."

The big man flushed. "You're very kind."

"No, I'm not," Evan grinned. "I have an ulterior motive. I'm currently working on a submission for a church. If I pay you for your time, would you be interested in providing me with a few sketches for windows? From what I can see, this is exactly what I've been looking for."

Suddenly, Swagger relaxed and smiled as if a great mystery had been cleared. "At least that explains why Orton has been spending his lunch hours drawing pews and pulpits. He's been working with you, hasn't he?"

"Yes." It was Evan's turn to go red.

"If you know my past, then you know that I've been acquainted with Randy for a long time. I know a great deal about him," he said, looking steadily at Evan.

"Well then," he asked, "would you be interested?"

"I don't know," he replied.

"Think about it," he said, giving him his card, "and call me in a day or two."

Anything Jack might have said was cut off as the door opened and another huge man came into the trailer. "Ah! There you are, Jack!" he exclaimed, speaking with a thick Irish brogue.

Evan tried hard not to stare at the extraordinary figure with a shock of red hair and the whitest skin he had ever seen.

"And who might this be?" he asked.

"This is Evan Bourne," Jack said. "He's the architect here."

Evan extended his hand, "How do you do Mr…"

"Just Sheamus, please. We've been quite interested in this project of yours," he said with a smile that did not reach his cold blue eyes.

Evan was at a loss how to reply to such a statement when the whistle blew. "I suppose you'll want to head home," he said, exiting the trailer with relief. What an odd encounter, he thought. No wonder Randy had concerns about the big Irishman; he was beginning to feel a little nervous himself, but all thoughts of Sheamus faded as Randy appeared.

"John said you were here," he said smiling down at him. "I'm glad."

Evan sighed with relief; he realised that the endless months of walking on eggs around Chris had made him doubt his every action and decision. They wandered along Water Street towards the Brooklyn Bridge, finally arriving at a tavern near the base of the bridge.

"Let's have a beer," Evan said. "There are a few things I need to tell you."

"You know this is the oldest bar in New York? It's gone by all sorts of names, but it's been here since 1794," Randy said.

"I read once they had a ferocious female bouncer here," Evan chuckled. "She used to bite the ears off people she disagreed with. They kept them in a jar over the bar."

"And I thought pickled eggs looked sickening," Randy laughed as they took seats, but he quickly became serious. "What do you need to tell me?" he asked, suddenly fearful.

"Chris was waiting for me when I got home last night. He knew that you had been at my place and put everything else together."

"Are you all right? Did he do anything to you? Because if he did, I'll –"

"He didn't _do_ anything, but he had quite a lot to say."

Randy's eyes dropped to the scarred surface of the bar. He took several swallows of his beer. "I should have told you."

"Yes, you should have."

"It was the July 4th weekend. I was lonely and bored. Someone I'd met at a bar invited me to Provincetown for the holiday. I started drinking the minute I arrived; everyone did. We were in some rented house on the beach and things got out of hand. Please, believe me," he said desperately, "I was pretty wild during my high-flying days, but that kind of thing is behind me. That weekend… I'm embarrassed even to think about it. I didn't even recognise Jericho until a few weeks ago."

"I believe you," Evan said. "I may not be the best judge of people," he laughed self-consciously, "but I believe that you are a much better man than you pretend to be."

"I'm not really, but when someone like John believes that I am, I feel like have to try to be that man. And you," he said quietly, "I want to be the man you deserve." He ventured to lay his hand on Evan's thigh in the dimness of the tavern. "Will you let me try?"

Evan briefly laid his own hand atop Randy's, "We'll do it together."

"Always," Randy whispered.

XXXXX

In the weeks that followed Randy reported more disturbing incidents from the building site: more damaged equipment, two days lost when it was discovered that the rebar that had just been delivered was of insufficient tensile strength and several crew members simply disappearing from the job.

"This is no good," Evan stated flatly. "Chris should be keeping a better eye on things."

"Jericho has hardly been seen for the last four weeks. John is going insane trying to get hold of him. He doesn't need this kind of aggravation right now; his mother is failing badly."

"Then Levesque needs to know what is happening. After all, he's the one paying for this."

Randy blinked in astonishment as Evan picked up his phone and asked to be connected to Levesque's home in Connecticut. He spoke briefly and hung up saying, "We're going to see him Monday morning. John too." He laughed at Randy's amazement, "You're not the only one who can arrange meetings, you know."

"I don't like to suggest it, but I think Jericho knows what's going on."

"You're probably right," Evan sighed. "The last couple weeks he was here there was something on his mind. Poor Chris! I hope he hasn't gotten mixed up in some sort of risky business with the unions."

"Poor Chris!" Randy exclaimed. "How can you say that after the things he did to you? It would serve him right to end out in the East River wearing a pair of cement boots!"

"I think you've been watching too many gangster movies," Evan retorted. "He wasn't always that way." As Randy snorted in disgust, he continued, "I loved him one time; I can't wish him any harm, but," he said, his expression growing resolute, "I won't let him endanger this project or the people involved. Especially you."

Randy crossed the room and wrapped his arms around him. "I can't stand the idea of you having any kind of contact with him. You mustn't let him get his hands on you ever again."

"I won't," he replied with a great deal more assurance than he felt. "Now, come and look at my drawings," he said leading Randy into his office.

"I still think you're insane to have approached Swagger. If people don't want to see my name associated with a project, that's nothing compared to how they would feel about Swagger."

Evan had been surprised when Swagger had agreed to provide him with designs for his windows, especially when he refused payment, but his drawings had meshed so perfectly with his vision that he could not bear not to use them. Finally, Swagger had agreed that, if Evan won the commission, he would take a fee.

As Randy hummed appreciatively over Evan's drawings, he turned his attention to a project he had just been awarded: a new gymnasium for a private school in Manhattan. He had taken several meetings with the contractor and the formidable headmistress of the school and was now adapting his design according to the points they had agreed upon.

He became so absorbed in his work that he was startled when Randy spoke, "If you don't get the job to build this, I swear I'm going to start my own religion and have you build this church for me."

"With my body, I thee worship," Evan grinned, pulling his head down to kiss him and effectively ending all serious conversation.

XXXXX

On the Monday morning, as they waited for John in the luxuriously appointed lobby of Levesque's office building, Randy shared more of his worries.

"I've done a little investigating," he said. "There's nobody in the AFL called Sheamus."

"You don't think that's his real name, do you?" Evan asked. "It's probably something quite ordinary like Mike. If you ask me, I think he's putting on a lot of that brogue; he sounds like an Irish cop in a James Cagney movie."

"Maybe so, but when I described him no one knew a thing and you must admit that he's pretty hard to miss."

"True," Evan agreed.

"I don't think it would be good for my health to go poking too much further; I don't want to get mixed up with the Longshoremen or the Teamsters," Randy said, "but it's strange. It's like he's a ghost." Realising what he had just said, he and Evan convulsed with laughter, but sobered up quickly as John appeared.

John appeared grey and drawn and, for a moment, Randy regretted bringing him into this business.

"I'm sorry," he said yawning hugely as they rode the elevator, "I've been up with Mom since two this morning. Liz hadn't stopped for over twenty-four hours; I made her go lie down for a bit."

Evan and Randy exchanged glances and slight smiles at this, but all three fell silent as they were ushered into the most luxurious office they had ever seen.

Evan had met with Levesque frequently, but he was always taken aback by the sheer power the man radiated. He shook hands courteously with all three; if he was surprised to see Randy with Evan, he gave no sign of it. He allowed Evan and Randy to speak without interruption and sat back in his chair regarding then with grave silence for several minutes.

"It may come as a surprise to you," he said slowly, "but I am aware of most of what you have told me about. Maybe not all of the details, but, I assure you, there is very little that goes on in my businesses that I do not know."

None of the three had any trouble believing that.

'Your concerns are not misplaced," he continued, "but you must know that I am taking steps to deal with them. Jericho has made some very unwise decisions concerning the company he keeps, which he will learn, to his cost. At the moment, I am not at liberty to say anything else," he said, "but I have a question for you, Orton."

"Yes."

"Why are you here? Bourne, I can understand; it's his project. Cena, too; it's his crew, but why should you care?" he asked. "I was more than a little taken aback when I realised who the R. Orton in my employ was."

"Then you should understand why I'm here," he said. "I know what it's like to have the death of over thirty men on my hands. I would not wish that on another."

Suddenly, Levesque smiled, "So the bad boy has grown up at last! I seem to recall that you referred to me in Time as a Philistine, but –"

"Actually, I called you a blind, money-worshipping blockhead, with a buzzard's beak, but Time didn't find that fit to print."

"Quite so, but, as I was about to say, I always regretted not having the opportunity to work with you. When you decide you've had enough of playing at working man, give me a call. Now, if you gentlemen will excuse me." He bent his head back to the work on his desk, indicating that the interview was over.

John, whose face had been suspiciously red during the elevator ride down, burst into loud laughter as soon as they left the building. "Oh Randy!" he gasped, "welcome back!"

"Did you hear that guy?" Randy exploded. "It has come to my notice that your concerns are not necessarily unwarranted notwithstanding that I had been heretofore advised of their potentially perilous possibilities. Stupid, highfalutin' jerk! I'd like to go back up there and punch him in the nose. I could hardly miss it!"

By now John was bent double, tears streaming down his face, oblivious to the stares of passers-by. "God, I missed you! Are you going to get your motorcycle out of storage now?"

"Do you still have that motorbike?" Evan asked.

"Yeah," Randy said sheepishly, "I couldn't bring myself to get rid of it."

"Do you have one of those leather jackets?' As Randy nodded, he went on, turning bright pink, "Would you wear it for me sometime?"

John composed himself with difficulty. "The real Randy Orton has finally come back. I needed that. I haven't laughed that hard in ages. Now, we'd better get back to work. See you later, Evan."

XXXXX

That was the last laughter they would share for some time. Evan had to submit his drawings in just over two weeks and was hard at work the next day when Randy called him at lunchtime.

"John's mother passed away last night," he said.

"Oh Randy!" Evan exclaimed, "I'm so sorry. I know you cared about her, too."

"I did," he said, his voice suspiciously thick, "but it was very peaceful. I was there and so were all of John's brothers."

"That's good. John is going to need you over the next few days. Where's the funeral? I'll send flowers."

"Actually, John was hoping you'd come and so was I. I need you."

"In that case, I'll be there."

XXXXX

Evan let himself into his apartment Friday afternoon after the funeral. Although he had never met John's mother, he was moved by the outpouring of emotion he had seen. Almost everyone who had worked on a crew with John had been present as well as dozens of people from the neighbourhood and church. Randy had given a brief eulogy, speaking of her kindness and generosity and John had spoken movingly of the courage and serenity with which she had faced life and death, paying brief tribute to Liz, who he thanked for the comfort she had brought to his mother and the family in her last days.

The date to submit his drawings was two weeks away; the Friday before Labour Day. He had told Randy that he needed to work uninterrupted for the next day and they had agreed to meet Sunday morning.

Hanging his jacket up, he was startled to hear a voice from his office. "I was down at the site this afternoon. It was like a ghost town."

The lock! He had forgotten to call the locksmith, after all! Cursing himself for a fool, he went into the office and faced Chris. "Cena's mother passed away; the funeral was this afternoon."

"_I_ knew that," Chris said, rolling his eyes with exasperation. "You really do think I'm stupid, don't you?"

Evan wasn't sure if Chris was drunk, but he knew he was irrational. Forcing his voice to remain steady he asked, "Why are you here?'

"Why am I here? Why am I here?" he cried, his voice rising with every word. "Maybe I missed you? Maybe I wanted to pay you a visit? Maybe I wanted to see what you've been up to?' He began to leaf through the drawings on his desk. Evan gave thanks that those with Randy's signature were in the drawer.

"You have been a busy boy," he said with mock admiration. "How have you had the time to do all this with all those important visits you've been making?"

"I – I don't know what you mean," he stammered as he tried to inch his way towards the desk.

Chris grabbed his tie and pulled him so that he was only inches away. "You don't know what I mean?" he asked in a curious sing-song voice. "He doesn't know what I mean. He doesn't know what I mean."

"No," he cried, shaking his head frantically. "Please Chris! Just leave!" With a superhuman effort, he forced himself to calm down. "Just leave or I'll call the police."

"Oh you're good at calling people, aren't you? You'll never guess who's been snooping around the site this week while John and his buddy Randy were away."

"I don't know," he said desperately. "How could I?"

"Because you went to see him! You and Randy! And now Jim Ross is sticking his fat, wobbly-eyed face in my business."

Evan groped around behind himself on the desk until his fingers closed around a paperweight. With all his might, he swung it into Chris's face, but the other man moved quickly and received only a glancing blow, opening a large cut over his eye.

For a moment they both stood motionless, Evan hypnotised by the blood that began to seep from the cut and drip down Chris's face. Chris deliberately swiped his forearm across his face, smearing the blood gruesomely; then he gave Evan a ghastly smile as he wrapped his hands around his throat.

Evan attempted to pry his hands away, but, as the pressure increased, he reached up and tried to claw Chris's face. He could see bursts of light behind his eyes as he tried to draw breath and hear his blood rushing in his ears as everything went black.

How long he was out, he didn't know, but he came around to hear tearing noises and a strange humming and to feel something pressing against his throat, which he realised, was Chris's foot.

"Chris," he managed to croak, "please!"

Humming tunelessly, Chris ignored him and went on tearing the papers on the desk into long strips until finally he had shredded every paper in sight. Gathering it all in his arms, he began to sprinkle it over Evan. "Happy New Year," he giggled as he lifted his foot and brought it down with all the force he could muster. Over and over, he stomped until Evan lay still and silent. Then he carefully cleaned himself up and, finding a fresh shirt he had left from happier days, he exited the apartment.


	6. Chapter 6

John and Randy sat together on the stoop of John's brownstone enjoying the warm late-summer evening. All of his neighbours and family had left. "You know," he said, "after you and Liz leave tonight, I'll be all alone. I don't think I can remember ever being alone for a whole night in this house my entire life."

"Do you want me to stay?"

"No. I'm going to have to get used to it sooner or later."

"Have you given any thought to what you're going to do now?"

"Not really. Mom left me the house. I suppose I'll sell it and split the proceeds with my brothers," he answered.

"Why would you do that?" Randy demanded. "She left _you_ the house. Sell it if you like, but use the cash to do something you want to do."

"But there's nothing I want to do," he said, his words belied by the glance he cast through the door at the slender figure standing at the sink.

"Except…" Randy grinned at him.

"Okay, she's coming over one day next week to help me sort through Mom's stuff." He ducked his head, "Then we're going out to dinner."

"You mean like… a date?"

"Yeah."

"Good for you," Randy chuckled, punching John on the arm. "You know what I think you should do?"

"Try out for the Dodgers?"

"I think you should go back to college."

"Are you nuts? That's even crazier than trying out for the Dodgers."

"Why?" Randy asked. "For the first time in your life you don't have any responsibilities. Sell the house and go back to school. It's what your mother wanted. She told me."

"But what if it doesn't work out? What if it's too late for me? I'll have lost everything. And besides," he added shyly, "there's Liz."

"Somehow, I think that Liz will want what you want," he replied. "Give her a chance. And if you're worried about the money, let me pay."

"I couldn't let you do that!" John exclaimed.

"Why not?" His voice softened, "If I gave you every penny I have, I could never repay you for what you did for me. At least think about it."

"All right, but only if you think about something, too."

"What's that?"

"Think about going back to architecture. You heard Levesque earlier this week," he said. "There are still people out there who would hire you."

"I don't know."

"Why don't you talk to Evan about it? You've been working with him already; it's worth thinking about."

Randy stared at John. "I still can't believe sometimes that it doesn't seem to matter to you."

John shrugged, "It took a little getting used to, I'll admit, but you're my friend; I want you to be happy and I think Evan makes you happy."

"He does."

"Good. Now I'm going to go and convince Liz to stop clearing up. I told her she didn't have to stay, but she insisted."

"I'll find a cab and see her home," Randy said.

"And pay a visit to her neighbour across the hall?" John laughed.

"Yep."

As the cab pulled up to the curb, Randy watched as John bent down and kissed Liz on the cheek, his heart swelling with happiness for his friend. How he hoped John would take him up on his offer! He had the money and could think of no better use for it.

He and Liz shared a silent ride, both worn out from the emotion of the day, but as they rode the elevator, Liz reached up and kissed his cheek.

"Thank you," she said simply. "Thank you for bringing John into my life."

"I think I should be thanking you," he said, as he held the elevator door. "You've done so much for John over the past few weeks."

"He's the best man I have ever met."

"I know," Randy answered, bending down to return her kiss. "He's almost good enough for you."

As Liz opened her door and slipped in, Randy tapped at Evan's door. Receiving no answer, he knocked harder, assuming that he was working in his office. He tapped his foot impatiently and gave the door several hard raps. There was no response, but Liz's door opened.

"My mother says she's sure he's there. He's probably so wrapped up in his work he can't hear anything. Mom says she heard him come in a few hours ago, but only his friend Chris left earlier."

Randy went white and began to pound on the door, calling Evan's name. Several other doors along the hallway opened to see what all the fuss was about as Randy hammered harder.

"I'll get the super," Liz said. "Maybe he's had an accident."

Randy considered trying to break the door down, but suspected that he would do more damage to himself than to the door. Finally, Liz appeared with a short, fat man, carrying a huge ring of keys. With agonising slowness, he selected a key from the ring and opened the lock.

Pushing past the superintendant, Randy shoved the door open and burst into the apartment, shouting Evan's name. For a second he stood, too horrified to move, in the doorway of the office as Liz slipped in ahead of him and bent over the figure on the floor.

"Call an ambulance," she demanded.

Randy ran to the phone and made the call and came back to squat on his other side. "How bad is it?" he asked brokenly.

"I'm not sure. I think he's in shock; he probably passed out from the pain. Do you think it was a robbery?" she asked, looking at the torn papers scattered all over the room.

"No."

Randy held Evan's right hand and stroked his dark hair gently, but Liz could see the vein pulsing in his temple.

"There's nothing life-threatening here," she said, "but I don't know what they'll be able to do about that." She gestured towards Evan's brutally mangled left hand. "Someone must have stomped on it over and over." She reached across and touched Randy's arm, "He's going to need you very much."

"I'll be there; I'll do anything."

"I know."

XXXXX

Evan was in surgery for eighteen hours as the doctors tried to repair his shattered hand. When he was released from the hospital three days later they told him that he would require further surgery, but that it was unlikely he would ever regain full use of his hand.

Randy was waiting for him with a cab and rode home with him.

"Do you want to lie down for a while?" he asked as they entered the apartment?

"No," answered walking into his office.

"Can I get you a drink or something to eat?"

He smiled faintly at Randy. "You don't have to take care of me. Liz has promised to look in on me a couple of times a day. She went to the market yesterday and bought me lots of one-handed food." He began to pick up the shredded paper from the floor and jam it into the wastebasket.

"Let me do that at least," Randy said, taking the paper from him. Evan had said very little in the past few days, but he had been addled from painkillers most of the time. He relinquished the paper without comment and opened a drawer in his desk. Taking a few blank sheets of paper, he tried, without success, to roll it into the platen of a typewriter that stood on a small table. Randy's heart ached as he watched him fumble with the paper and, finally, he took it from him and rolled it into the machine. Evan pecked at the typewriter for several minutes until Randy could stand it no longer.

"Writing a letter?"

"Yes. I'm withdrawing from the competition for the church."

"You can't!" Randy cried.

"I have to," he said, scowling at the keys. "All that – that confetti there is my drawings. At least the gym is finished. They don't really need me on that one anymore and everything is done for your project." He shook his head, "I think I'm feeling a little fuzzy still. I don't quite remember what else I have out there right now. I'm going to need to tell everybody that I'm closing up shop."

"Aren't you being a little hasty?"

"Randy, I'm left-handed," he said holding up his bandaged hand. "The doctors say I'll probably never regain full use of my hand. My career is over."

"But your church! It was almost finished!"

"I know," he sighed, "but all my final drawings are stuffed in the trash now. I'll admit giving up that one really hurts. I was really proud of the work I'd done. At least your drawings and Jack's designs are safe. I'll make sure somebody sees them."

"Is everything else gone?"

"I have all my early work and all of my preliminary sketches, but I can't submit that."

"Can I see what you have?" he asked.

Evan opened a drawer and pulled out a thick file. Randy spent several minutes leafing through the papers, growing excited. "You have everything here. All you need are the final drawings."

"_All_ I need is the final drawings!" he exclaimed bitterly. "All I need is a hand that works and I don't have that anymore. It's over."

"No, it isn't," Randy said, deliberately switching on the light over Evan's drafting table.

"Even if, by some miracle, I get back the use of my hand, the drawings have to be submitted in ten days. I can't do it."

"Maybe not," Randy said, sitting at the table, "but I can. We have all your preliminary work. Tell me what you want; I'll do it."

"Don't be stupid! It would never work." He managed a crooked smile, "But I'll never forget that you offered."

"You are _not_ giving this up! Not without some sort of fight. Maybe it won't work, but we're going to try. We'll do it together."

Evan's eyes grew liquid as he handed Randy a pencil. "Together?"

"Always."

XXXXX

Randy stretched and rubbed his eyes. Evan had dozed off on the couch and he didn't have the heart wake him and send him to bed. Since they had started working together, he refused to take any drugs until the pain became unbearable. Looking at the sleeping figure, the shadows beneath his eyes, the bruises on his neck and the heavily bandaged hand, he felt his heart clench. They had argued several times during the last few days over Evan's refusal to go to the police.

"I can't do it," he had said. Everything would come out. I can't stand the idea that anyone would know what he did to me."

He had reluctantly agreed, understanding the nature of Evan's fear. He had, however, told John what had happened and informed him that he would not be returning to the building site because he knew he would not be able to control himself if he saw Chris.

Although Evan remained gloomily convinced that they were wasting their time, Randy was confident. With infinite patience, he drew and redrew under Evan's direction, snatching sleep a few hours at a time, eating without notice anything that appeared on a plate next to him and stopping only when Liz dropped in and forced them to take a break, if only to walk around the block.

And finally, the day before Evan had to submit them, they were done. A messenger service was booked to pick them up at eight the following morning. Randy surveyed the package with satisfaction. Working into the night, he had felt himself tingle with certainty: Evan's designs were extraordinary. He knew, with the same conviction he had felt at the height of his own career, that Evan would win this commission.

"And now the hard part begins," Evan said, "The waiting." He opened a drawer and pulled out a package. "I'll never be able to thank you for what you've done, but I want you to have this."

Randy pulled the brown paper wrapping off to discover several framed sketches and drawings. As he poured over them wordlessly, he felt tears prick his eyes.

"They'd slipped inside the lining of your portfolio. I thought you should have them to remind you of whom you are and why you did this."

"They were so happy, I remember," he said as he swiped his hand across his eyes. "They were high school sweethearts, married fifteen years. They'd given up all hope of having a baby. I remember they positively glowed with happiness."

"Then you need to remember that. Just think their child spent his whole life surrounded by love and happiness. And you helped create that." Evan swallowed convulsively. "You've punished yourself long enough. You loved doing this; you still do. Don't turn your back on what you love."

XXXXX

Randy and Evan spent the Saturday of the Labour Day weekend at Jones Beach with John and Liz. As Evan and Liz lazed on the beach John and Randy went to buy hot dogs.

"How's he doing?" John asked as they waited in line.

"He's convinced that his career is finished, so, naturally, he's very depressed. He's been trying to write with his other hand. It breaks my heart to see it," Randy sighed.

"It's good Jericho hasn't shown his face recently. I know he wouldn't be safe from you, but I'd like to have a shot at him, too."

"So how are things going?"

"Not good." John shook his head. "I need you back there. I can't be in seven places at once. Everybody is on edge all the time; they know that something isn't right. Jericho's done a disappearing act and Jim Ross has shown up two or three times in the last week. If it weren't for Swagger, I think I would have lost my mind."

"Swagger!" Randy exclaimed in astonishment.

"He's been great. Don't forget, he used to be a contractor himself. He knows how to talk to the suppliers and he's been terrific about keeping the guys on track. But I need you, Randy. Levesque called; he'd like you back on the job, too."

"I don't know," he said as he dumped every condiment available on his hot dog.

"I don't know what's going on with Jericho, but I don't think he's going to be a problem for you. Anyway, I know what you're like with too much time on your hands. Evan will be ready to strangle you in a couple of weeks."

"I guess I could come back. Just make sure Jericho doesn't show his face while I'm around." He grinned at John, "It would be very bad for his health."

Although Liz was convinced that Randy and John were attempting to drown one another as they rough-housed in the water, they thoroughly enjoyed the afternoon. John and Liz exchanged smiles as Randy and Evan got into a heated discussion about the merits of the Art Deco bath houses at the east and west ends of the beach.

"Will you two give it a rest," John complained. "Save it for the Op-Ed page of the Times."

"Maybe I will," Randy snorted.

"Now look what you've done!" Evan rolled his eyes. "I can just see it: 'A glut of ornamentation serves no practical function; if it has no utility, it has no beauty.'"

"Exactly," Randy said. "I may just quote you on that. Le Corbusier says that an object's greatest beauty lies in its perfect adaptation to its usage. And you know I'm right because you agree with me," he said, glaring at Evan.

"I have no idea what you two are talking about," John said, "but maybe it's time you stopped complaining about it and started showing people how you think it should be done."

"Maybe it is. Somebody ought to show those moronic troglodytes like Levesque that owning a fake Tudor mansion in Connecticut doesn't make you aristocratic. Did you ever see photos of the interior? I've seen classier looking brothels."

"Moronic troglodyte!" John gasped with laughter. "Yes, the real Randy Orton is beginning to come back."

That night, after attending a performance of Guy Lombardo's Arabian Nights, starring Lauritz Melchior, at the Jones Beach theatre, Randy and Evan took a taxi back to Brooklyn.

"John's right, you know," Evan commented. "It's time you came back to what you were meant to do."

"I said I'd think about it," he replied, assuming a mulish expression. "But, for now, he wants me to come back to the site."

"I know. Liz told me."

"I don't like the idea of running into Jericho," he said, paying the driver, "but I can't really refuse him."

"No, you can't," Evan said following Randy into his apartment, "and you don't need to babysit me anymore. I can look after myself."

Randy pulled Evan into his arms. "I know, but I like looking after you." He buried his face in the crook of Evan's neck, his teeth gently grazing the tender flesh. "I don't know about you," he said, "but I have sand in all sorts of uncomfortable places."

"Do you need some help getting to those hard-to-reach places?"

"I thought you'd never ask," he murmured, pulling Evan's shirt over his head.

He led Evan into the bathroom and, as the large, claw-footed tub filled with water, stripped off his clothes. He watched Evan struggle to open his trousers, but, when he attempted to help, his hand was batted away. "I need to do it for myself," he muttered. Finally nude, he climbed into the tub and lay back against Randy, carefully keeping his bandaged hand hanging over the edge.

Randy held Evan close, pressing soft kisses against the side of his neck and along his shoulder as he hummed with pleasure. He nibbled gently at his ear while he sighed and tipped his head back in a gesture of surrender. He could feel Evan's buttocks undulating against his groin as he thrust into his hand when a disquieting thought intruded. In the weeks since they had become lovers, especially the past ten days working together on the church, they had grown as close as it was possible for two people to be. There was an unquestioned assumption that they were meant to be together, always, but there was one word that had yet to be spoken between them.

He shifted his weight, turning slightly, so that he could support Evan with his arm and see his face. "I love you," he said.

Evan hooked his bandaged hand around Randy's neck and pulled his head down, kissing him eagerly. Randy returned the kiss with equal hunger, trying to quash his disappointment that Evan had not said the words in return. He lifted him easily, so that he straddled his hips, his lips tracing a path across his collar bone, as Evan strained and arched towards him.

Finally, he rose up on his knees, steadying himself with his good hand as Randy carefully pushed himself into Evan's opening. He could see Evan bite his lip to hold back a cry as he slowly lowered himself onto Randy's shaft.

"I'm not hurting you, am I?" he asked, remaining still as Evan grew accustomed to his size.

Evan shook his head slightly and began to move, meeting Randy's thrusts. Randy wrapped his hand around Evan's length, pumping in time to his movements. There was no sound in the room except their harsh breathing and an occasional drip from the taps. Randy, moved by the sight of Evan, his head thrown back, lost in ecstasy, moved his hand faster. Say it, please, he thought. Say it.

As Evan went still and his eyes opened wide, Randy realised he had spoken aloud.

"Evan! What's wrong? Am I hurting you?" Maybe it was too soon; he was horrified to see Evan go pale as his frame was wracked by tremors. "What's wrong?" he asked again.

"Nothing!" he cried desperately. He tried to start moving again, but Randy grasped his hips to still him and eased away carefully.

"Don't lie to me!" he shouted, climbing out of the tub and snatching up a towel to wrap around himself. "Is it what I said? Don't try to tell me you don't feel the same way!"

Evan climbed awkwardly out of the tub and sat down on the toilet, burying his head in his hands. "I do," he mumbled. "It's not what you said. It's – it's what he said."

Randy squatted in front of him and took his good hand. "Tell me," he said gently.

"He used to make me say it while we were – were… Every time, I'd swear that he wouldn't make me say it this time, but I always did."

Randy could feel the blood pounding in his head, but he forced himself to remain calm. He handed Evan a towel and pulled on his shorts. "I understand," he said. "You'll say it when you're ready." Trying to mask his disappointment and hurt, he left the bathroom and went to his bedroom, flinging himself onto the bed.

Evan joined him several minutes later, also wearing his shorts. "I'm so sorry, Randy," he said. "It's not like I think you're anything like him. It's just when you said that…"

Looking at Evan's stricken expression, he felt his heart turn over. "Come here," he said, patting the bed. As Evan complied, he gathered him into his arms, pillowing his head on his shoulder. "Listen to me. I'm not going to let what that bastard did to you destroy what we have."

"Neither will I," Evan said. "I'll get through it, somehow."

"No, _we'll_ get through it."

"Together?"

"Always."

XXXXX

Randy rejoined the crew on the Tuesday following Labour Day. He and Evan had spent the rest of the weekend quietly together, going to the movies to see Some Like it Hot and making themselves sick eating an entire Chocolate Blackout Cake from Ebinger's. Late at night, nestled in Randy's arms, Evan had told him a bit about his relationship with Chris. Although glad that Evan had shared this with him, he found himself fervently hoping that Jericho would stay away from the site.

During the days, however, he had little time to dwell on it. John was right: the entire crew was tense and nervous. Chris's absence and the visits by Jim Ross had set them all on edge. Thankfully, the end was in sight; barring any complications, they were on schedule to finish by the end of October. As the construction progressed, he came to appreciate Jack Swagger's worth as the big man unobtrusively lifted many burdens from John's shoulders, but that did not ease his disquiet when, one afternoon in late September, he spied him in earnest conversation with Sheamus.

He decided it was time to confront Swagger and, as soon as the big Irishman left, he approached him. "Jack," he asked in low tones, "what the hell is going on between you and Sheamus?'

"Nothing," he said, drawing himself up to his full height.

"Don't try to tell me that. Almost every time he's been here I see you two whispering together." His expression softened, "Does he have some sort of hold over you?" he asked, genuine compassion in his voice. "You should go to Ross. He'd listen to _you_."

"Randy, just keep out of it," he hissed. "Just mind your own business."

"You know I can't do that. I'm going to see John and tell him I want you off this site."

He started to turn away, but Jack caught him by the arm, "Don't bother. John won't do anything."

"Are you suggesting that John's involved in all of this somehow? How dare you?" Randy shouted, wrenching his arm away. Forcing himself to calm down, he said, "You want to know something funny? I always thought you'd gotten a raw deal in Chicago and I thought you were a fool for taking the fall the way you did. Now, I'm not so sure, but don't ever, _ever_ try to suggest that John has anything to do with whatever you're up to now."

He stormed away as Jack stared helplessly after him. Finding John alone in the site trailer, he spoke to him urgently. "John! You have to do something about Swagger. I don't know what the hell he's up to, but he's suggesting that you're in on it."

John remained silent for several minutes and finally spoke quietly, "Randy, please stay out of this."

Randy stared at him in shock, Oh my God! You are! John, what's going on? Are you in some sort of trouble? Tell me!" he begged. "Let me help!"

"Please! I'm begging you! Don't get involved." He raised stricken eyes to Randy's face.

"You know I can't do that. If not for you, then for Evan. If something happened to this project after everything he's been through, it would break his heart."

"All I can do is ask you to trust me." He took hold of Randy's forearm, "It _would_ break Evan's heart if something happened to you."

"It's that serious?"

"It is."

XXXXX

That night Randy went to Evan's apartment and told him everything that had happened. Evan listened in silence and asked, "Do you trust John?"

"With my life."

"Then do what he asks."

"How can I?" he cried pacing restlessly around the room. "If he's involved in this, it has to be against his will. How can I not try to help him?"

"Because he asked you," Evan said, grabbing his arm and pulling him down to sit next to him. "Because he's right."

"Right? How?"

"Because it would break my heart if something happened to you. Yes, I'd hate it if something happened to the project, but it's only a building." He looped his arms around Randy's neck and looked him in the eye. "I love you," he said, "and _I'm_ begging you as well: respect John's wishes."

At these words, Randy crushed Evan to his chest brushing soft kisses against the top of his head. He pulled him across his lap and kissed him tenderly. "Can you say it again?" he murmured.

Evan smiled up at him . "I love you," he said.

"All my life," Randy said," all my life, I've been empty and alone, but you fill me. You make me whole; you inhabit my soul."

He buried his face in Evan's neck, his lips burning a path along his throat as he opened the buttons of his shirt. His hands slid across Evan's compact torso and down, slipping inside his trousers to cup the hardness within. Evan arched up towards him, his good hand resting on Randy's back as he made soft sounds of pleasure.

He slid to the floor and, kneeling in front of the couch, tugged off Evan's trousers and shorts. Evan moaned as Randy took him into his mouth, running his tongue along his length, teasing the sensitive ridge beneath the head. He kept his eyes fixed on Evan's face and, when his eyes fluttered open, their eyes met as he reached down to caress his face.

"I love you," he whispered again, rejoicing that he could say the words, that the past was losing its hold on him, that, finally, he could give himself completely.

Randy lifted his legs over his shoulders and dipped his head lower. His long tongue reached out to lap slowly at Evan's puckered opening as he squirmed with delight. He loved Evan with careful, deliberate strokes as he fumbled with his own trousers, finally managing to open them and push them down with one hand.

Evan slipped down from the couch so that he was straddling Randy and pulled at his t-shirt with his good hand until Randy yanked it off and tossed it across the room. He ran his hand down Randy's arm, tracing his tattoos with his fingertips as he nuzzled his neck and pressed kisses on the soft skin, scraping his forehead against the slight stubble on his chin.

"Randy! Please!" he gasped, raising himself up on his knees.

He carefully pressed himself into Evan, slowly allowing him to become accustomed to his size before he began to move. Cradling his head with one hand, he wrapped his other arm around him, holding him close as he sought his lips. Evan's cries were lost in Randy's kisses as his movements became more urgent and he pressed himself even closer, his shaft rubbing against Randy's sweat-slick abdomen.

He lifted his mouth from Evan's and cupped his face between his hands, his thumbs gently stroking his cheekbones. Evan opened his eyes as they stopped moving and curled his hand around the back of Randy's neck. "How did this happen?" he murmured, holding Randy's gaze. "How did we find each other?"

Randy's eyes glowed a luminous blue. "Because we were meant to be together. Always."

They began to move again, Evan meeting Randy's every thrust until, suddenly, he tensed and burst forth with a soft cry, spilling his seed over their bellies in several pearly strands. Randy followed him to the peak, the sight of Evan's face flushed with passion and his mouth slightly open as he reached fulfillment sending him over the brink. With a long sigh, he surrendered himself to Evan and gathered him close in his arms as he shook with spasms of his own completion.

They held each other close for a long time, waiting for their heartbeats to return to normal. "I'm sorry it took me so long to say it," Evan said.

"You'll just have to keep saying to me every day from now on." Randy smiled down at him.

"Every day?"

"For the rest of our lives."


	7. Chapter 7

As the cooler days of autumn arrived, things began to move very quickly. The building, which had seemed to progress with agonising slowness, was in its final stages. All exterior work was finished; only the scaffolding at the top floor remained. There had been a few more incidents: a large quantity of copper wire had gone mysteriously missing, John had refused delivery of one of the elevator motors, claiming it was defective and an electrician had received a serious shock and was still hospitalised.

At least it would be finished soon, Randy thought. John's good nature had begun to fail; even the knowledge that the Dodgers would make the World Series couldn't cheer him. The tension on the site seemed to increase every day, hanging over them all like an impending thunderstorm.

There had, however, been one piece of good news. Evan's doctors had told him that they were optimistic that, with further surgery, he would regain enough use of his hand to be able to hold a pen and write.

"They told me there was almost no hope that I'd be able to do the kind of detailed work that architecture demands, but it's better than nothing," he said. "I was thinking of going into teaching."

Randy had kept silent, but a plan was beginning to form in his mind and when he received word that Levesque wanted to see him at the end of the day on the last Friday of September, it had almost fully taken shape.

"I have no idea why he wants to see you," John had said, "but for the love of God, behave!"

"Don't I always?" he had replied with a smirk. "I promise not to call him Cyrano to his face."

It had been good to see John laughing again Randy reflected as he rode in a cab to Levesque's office. Thank God they would be finished next week. An informal celebration had been planned for Monday afternoon and the entire job would be wrapped up by the end of the week.

He was immediately ushered into Levesque's office and the other man wasted no time on trivialities, plunging right into the matter at hand.

"You will recall that I asked you to call me when you were ready to return to architecture." Not bothering to acknowledge Randy's nod, he continued, "I shall be expanding my business considerably next year. I intend to build a chain of hotels, the first in Las Vegas and Miami. I would be interested in retaining you to design these hotels. You would be responsible for the overall appearance of the entire chain eventually, subject, of course, to my approval."

"Of course." Randy couldn't help saying it anymore than he could help the sarcastic note that crept into his voice.

Levesque smiled faintly. "You would be given considerable freedom. I have long admired your work; no purpose would be served in acquiring your services and then attempting to impose my own tastes upon you."

"No indeed. That would never do," he said with mock horror, amazed at how quickly his old persona re-emerged.

"I will, however, be placing considerable expectations upon you. I don't want buildings; I want landmarks," he stated, "and I want you to oversee the interior furnishings as well. It seems you are a man of hidden talents."

Startled into courtesy, Randy asked, "How did you discover that?"

"I began to hear a strange rumour that a number of drawings of church furnishings had recently surfaced with your signature on them. I made some inquiries; Bourne's design has caused a fair bit of excitement and seeing your name attached has created even more." Levesque's chilly demeanour softened, "I understand Bourne has had a serious accident and will no longer be able to design. That is a shame; he is a very talented young man."

"Yes, he is," Randy agreed, "but I don't believe his career has to be over."

"I hope you're right. Now, please think about my proposal and give me your answer soon."

XXXXX

Randy made his way to Evan's apartment in a daze. He knew he would be a fool to turn down such an opportunity, but he had severe misgivings, which he intended to discuss with him.

Evan flung the door open, brandishing a bottle of champagne. "Randy! They called after lunch. They want my design for the church."

"I knew it. There was no way they could choose anything else over yours; it's far too good."

"I couldn't have done it without you. _You_ won me the commission. I'll never be able to repay you," he said, handing the bottle to Randy.

Deftly opening the bottle and pouring them each a glass, Randy said, "All I did was draw a few chairs and follow your instructions. _You_ won that competition, but I'm proud to have been a part of it."

"It will be my last project," he said wistfully, "and my finest."

"It doesn't have to be your last."

"I'm never going to be able draw well enough again. I have to accept that."

"No, you don't," Randy said. "Listen to me." He told Evan about his meeting with Levesque. "I had already been thinking about how we worked together. Why can't we continue? You still have your ideas, your vision. I can put them down on paper."

"It would never work," he replied. "You have this wonderful chance to resume your career. I would only hold you back. Sooner or later, you'd start to resent the time you had to spend doing my work that you could be spending on your own. It's only a dream."

Randy drained his glass. "It doesn't have to be a dream," he said stubbornly. "It could work. We could hire an associate to help. Levesque will pay well. And I need you."

Evan set his glass down and took his hand. "Randy, you don't need anybody. What you're trying to do for me is beautiful. I'll never forget it."

"You don't understand; I do need you. Today, when I was with Levesque, I could feel my old self coming out. I don't want to be like that anymore, but I can't do it without you."

"But you're not like that anymore; you've changed. You have great things ahead of you. You don't need me. I'd only be in your way."

Randy snatched his hand away. "What happened to 'we'll do it together'?' he said, his voice rising. "If you don't want to work with me, just say so!"

"No, it's nothing like that!"

"You're afraid, aren't you?"

"Yes!" he cried. "I am afraid. Even if the ideas are still there, I'll never be able to make them clear enough for someone else to translate onto paper. I'd be a laughing-stock. Please Randy," he begged, "it's over."

Randy stood abruptly and put on his jacket. "Come on," he said. "We're going out. I want to show you something."

"Where are we going?" Evan asked as they stood outside.

"You'll see," he said, hailing a cab.

At Randy's direction the cab dropped them at the base of the Brooklyn Bridge. Evan followed him along the walkway until he stopped about half-way across. "Look," he said, gesturing across the East River.

Evan gazed at Manhattan, at the most famous skyline in the world, spread out before them.

"Look," he said again, pointing at the Seaport. "You can't see it, but your building is there. You're part of that now. Don't tell me you can give that up; not without a fight."

They stood in silence for a long time in the cool early evening. Evan picked out the great landmarks of the city: the American International Building, the City Bank-Farmers Trust Building, the Irving Trust Building and others. As night fell, the buildings gleamed jewel-like in the darkness. "Do you really think I can do it?" he asked.

"I know _we_ can do it."

"Together?"

"Always."

XXXXX

Evan and Randy joined John and Liz at the tavern on Saturday for game 4 of the World Series. The owner had just installed a television and the place was packed with fans, who roared with joy as the Dodgers tied the series with the Yankees.

Once it became possible to be heard, John turned to Evan, "We're having a little shindig at the site on Monday for the guys to celebrate the end of the project; just sodas and sandwiches, but you should come."

"I'd like that," he said. "Have there been any more problems?"

"Nothing important," he answered, ignoring Randy's glare. "I guess Ross's visits had an effect. Nobody wants him for an enemy."

"So, what will you be doing now this job is finished?"

He lifted his shoulders slightly. "There are a few of short-term jobs out there. The boss wants me to oversee a couple of renovations in the city. That should keep me busy until next spring and then…" His voice trailed off and he turned bright red.

"And then he's been offered a place at MIT's School of Engineering," Liz cut in, "but he doesn't know if he should take it."

"Oh, he'll take it," Randy said. "If I have to force him to do it at gunpoint, he'll take it."

"That's wonderful news!" Evan exclaimed. "You have to take it. Of course," he added with a grin, "it means you'll have to become a fan of the Red Sox."

"Not on your life!" John burst out as the others laughed at his vehemence.

"And Randy and I can visit you in Cambridge."

"Hah!" Randy snorted. "Evan has an ulterior motive: he's been dying to see Eero Saarinen's chapel and the Kresge Auditorium."

"So have you!" Evan retorted.

"Are you sure it's a good idea for you two to work together?" John asked. "I can just see it; you'll spend all your time arguing."

"Don't listen to him," Liz interrupted. "I think it's wonderful. Now, if you will excuse me, I need to use the ladies' room."

The three men stood as she left, Randy signalling for another round. "You will take that place, won't you? If it's a question of money, you know I'll-"

"That won't be necessary." John held up his hand. "There should be enough when the house is sold."

"And what about Liz?"

"She says she can wait, but," John grinned, "I don't know if I can."

"Then don't wait," Randy said. "Life's too short; you've waited long enough for the things you deserve. Ask her to come to Cambridge with you."

"I'm going to," he said as Evan excused himself as well.

"I guess everything is going to change." Randy couldn't help the regretful note in his voice.

"Yes, it is," John agreed, "but they will be changes for the better. You're going back to what you love and," his voice softened, "you won't be alone anymore. This is the first time since we were in college that you seem happy."

"I am," he said simply. "And so are you." He reached out and squeezed John's forearm. "You deserve it."

"So do you, Randy," he replied, his eyes lighting up as Liz made her way back to the table. "So do you."

XXXXX

Evan got out of the cab and stood across the road from his building, staring up at it. A lump formed in his throat at the sight of it. It was everything he had ever pictured and more. Oblivious to the honking cars, he hurried across the street to thank the men who had made it possible.

The first person he encountered was Jack Swagger, who shook his hand warmly. "Congratulations," he said. "I hear you won the competition for the church."

"I did," he answered, "and I couldn't have done it without your help. Your windows were just the thing I needed to make it stand out. You have to let me pay you now."

"We can talk about that later," he said. "John is still up on the roof, but most of the other guys are around. Randy's over there." He pointed in the direction of the trailer where several tables had been set up with huge trays of sandwiches and tubs of potato salad.

"So, what do you think?" Randy asked as Evan joined him.

"It's incredible. I still can't believe that I had anything to do with this."

"Believe it," he said. "There are going to be plenty more. I spoke to Levesque this morning; we'll both be meeting with him later this week." Suddenly, his face darkened. "What the hell is _he_ doing here today?" he muttered as he spied a red-headed man climb out of a car that had pulled up.

"Randy, just ignore him," Evan said. "You're finished here. There's nothing he can do here anymore."

Randy did his best to enter into the celebratory atmosphere, introducing Evan to many of the crew and passing out sandwiches as Evan shook their hands and thanked them all for their hard work.

He was chatting with several of them when Cody Rhodes came over to help himself to a salami sandwich. "Everybody is showing up today," he said. "Even Jericho. Nobody's seen him for weeks, but now he's here to grab the credit."

"Jericho's here?" Randy asked quietly as Evan turned pale.

"Yeah. Ted saw him earlier. I think he went up to the roof."

"Randy don't-" Evan whispered.

He could feel the rage boiling inside of him and it erupted when Jack approached them with Sheamus at his side. "_You_," he shouted, "you get out of here. You've done nothing but sneak around here. I don't know what you've been trying to do, but it's too late." He was so angry he failed to notice that the Irishman was uncharacteristically well-dressed in a dark suit and tie.

"And you!" He grabbed Jack by the shirtfront, "Go with him before I break your neck."

In a move so swift Randy wasn't sure how he accomplished it, Sheamus had one of his arms twisted painfully behind his back. "Now, Mr Orton," he said in a conversational tone, "I am going to let go of you, but I want your word that you will not attempt to lay hands on myself or Swagger. Do you understand?"

Randy, who could feel the outline of a gun in a shoulder harness pressing up against him, nodded.

"Good," he said. He released Randy, but maintained a firm grip on his arm. "Perhaps it's time we were properly introduced. I am Special Agent Stephen Farrelly of the F.B.I." He smiled slightly at the gasps from the crew that greeted this statement. "I don't have time for a complete explanation right now, but we have been paying very close attention to Jericho. He has managed to stay out of sight for the past several weeks, but we have heard that he might be here."

"He is," Cody said. "He's on the roof."

"So is Cena," Jack said turning white.

Upon hearing those words, Randy broke free and sprinted across the site into the building, heedless of Farrelly's shouts to stop. The agent ran after him, disappearing inside.

"You've known. You've known all along!" Evan shouted at Jack, who grasped him firmly by the arms as he attempted to follow them across the site.

"Yes I have," he said as Evan struggled against him, "but that's not important right now. If Jericho is up there, Randy and John are in terrible danger."

XXXXX

Randy took the stairs three at a time, fear and rage making him tireless. Oblivious to Farrelly's calls behind him, he reached the roof level, thanking God that the building was only eleven storeys high. He burst onto the roof to be confronted by the sight of John and Jericho perilously near the edge.

Jericho began to laugh as Randy walked slowly over to him. "Hello lover boy," he crooned.

"Chris," Randy said quietly, "why don't you come inside and we'll go down."

"I can't. They're waiting for me down there, aren't they?"

"Yes, they are," he said, ignoring John, who was shaking his head frantically, "but it will be all right."

"How can you say that?" he shrieked. "They want to kill me."

"No they don't; they just want to talk to you." Randy looked around. Farrelly would be up there any second and Jericho was so irrational, there was no telling what he might do.

"You'd just hand me over to them, wouldn't you? You think it would serve me right."

"Chris, you are in serious trouble, but we will help you. Please, just come inside," he begged, taking another step closer to him. He was almost within his reach; just a few more inches…

"I don't want your help," he cried wildly. "I was never good enough for you; you didn't even remember my name. I don't want your pity."

Randy inched a little closer; snatching at his shirt, planning to pull him to safety as John edged up behind him when the rooftop door was flung open and Chris cast himself backwards, reaching out and catching their shirts, pulling one with him over the edge.

XXXXX

The men on the ground watched in horror as two figures toppled over the edge of the building and plummeted to the ground. Evan fought his way through them as they crowded around their broken bodies. John could be recognised only by his orange shirt, so mangled was he, but Chris was still breathing. Evan squatted by him and took his hand as he issued forth a deep groan. His blue eyes sought and held Evan's for an instant and then they glazed over.

Evan was still crouching by Chris's body when an ashen-faced Randy emerged from the building. Casting a last look at Chris, he bid his tortured lover a final farewell and rose to go to Randy's side. Randy's teeth were chattering with shock as Farrelly led him into the site trailer, Evan and Jack following them.

The Irishman pulled a flask from his jacket and handed it to Randy, who took several swigs. "I've no doubt you have many questions," he said, his brogue considerably softened. "I have been working undercover on behalf of the Justice Department for some time now. As you know, the AFL has been anxious to sever any possible connections to organised crime. Jim Ross approached them and, with their co-operation, I was able to represent myself as a member."

"Ross knew what was going on!" Evan exclaimed. "That was why he brushed us aside when we went to see him."

"Indeed." Farrelly smiled faintly. "He enlisted Swagger's help when we realised that Jericho's connections were – questionable. The Bureau was able to secure his release in exchange for his help. He has provided us with a great deal of very valuable information."

"John knew, didn't he?" Randy asked dully.

"Yes, he did. His help was invaluable. Levesque knew as well."

"You're saying that Chris had some sort of connection with those people?" Evan asked.

"Yes. He was being forced to use their suppliers. When you refused suspect materials, they began to put pressure on him, such as when the equipment was vandalised. They have been looking for him for some time now. We may have wanted him as well, but it was as much for his own safety. I suppose we'll never know why he came here today."

"I do," Evan said. "He was desperate and he was terrified. He knew they were looking for him. He came here to end it." As Randy turned his head slowly to stare at him, he continued, "Think about it! It makes sense. When John found him up there, he would have tried to talk him down."

"It's possible," Jack said, "but we'll never really know."

"Evan's right," Randy said in the same flat, emotionless voice. "Jericho was petrified. He kept saying they were waiting for him, that they were going to kill him. I thought he was referring to the Feds, but it was the Mob. John tried to shut me up when I said that they were waiting for him. He was mad with fear; I made it worse. And now he's dead. And John. And it's my fault." He stood. "I imagine the police will have some questions for me. They must be here by now."

"Yes they will," Farrelly said, "and I will need a complete statement from you, as well. You too, Mr Bourne. We had been watching Jericho and, to a certain extent, you, for several months now and we have some questions for you. I assure you," he said as Evan flushed uncomfortably, "the Bureau has no interest in your private life. We just need to ask you about Jericho's comings and goings."

Randy gave his statement to the police and he and Evan made arrangements to meet with Farrelly the next day. Finally, they were able to leave. Refusing Farrelly's offer of a ride, Randy hailed a cab and he and Evan rode in silence to Brooklyn.

As soon as he was inside his apartment, he found a bottle of whiskey and poured himself a large glass, which he drank in several gulps. Refilling his glass, he sank onto the couch. "They screamed, you know?" he said. "Both of them; just as they went over. I'll hear it until my dying day."

Evan sat next to him and gently took the glass away, holding him close as his frame shook with sobs. Finally spent, he took the handkerchief Evan proffered and wiped his eyes and blew his nose. "It _is_ my fault," he said. "John would have talked him down, but I had to go rushing in. Jericho was so frightened he threw himself off the roof. And he took John with him. I killed them both."

Evan wisely remained silent for the next hour as Randy accused himself over and over again, pausing only to refill his glass and swallow the liquor down. At last, slurring his words from the whiskey and exhausted by the emotion and shock, he began to nod and Evan drew his head down into his lap as he fell asleep. As he snored drunkenly, Evan finally let his own tears fall. He wept for the handsome blue-eyed man he had once loved and the monster he had become, his heart aching as he imagined the gnawing fear that had eaten him in his last days and the relentless terror of his last moments. He wept for the man he loved today, for his grief and all-consuming guilt and he wept for the good man who had died that day. Finally, he, too, fell into a fitful doze and, in the smallest hours of the night, when Randy reached for him, they found wordless comfort and succour in each others' arms.

XXXXX

The following morning both were pale and heavy-eyed.

"I have to go home and change before we see Farrelly," Evan said. "And I need to tell Liz."

"Do you want me to come with you?" Randy asked his voice hoarse with emotion and the liquor from the night before.

Evan hesitated. Randy's grief was palpable and he had still had much to endure; he could spare him this, at least. "No," he answered, "I can do it myself."

"I know you can, but would you like me to be with you when you tell her?"

"Yes."

"Then we'll do it together." He pulled Evan into his arms and held him close. "Always."

XXXXX

They buried John the day after his beloved Dodgers won the World Series. Throughout the city, equipment stayed still and sites were silent as hundreds of men came to Brooklyn to pay their respects and wept openly as Randy read the words of Henry Scott Holland: "Death is nothing at all. It does not count. I have only slipped away into the next room. Nothing has happened. Everything remains exactly as it was. I am I, and you are you, and the old life that we lived so fondly together is untouched, unchanged. Whatever we were to each other, that we are still. Call me by the old familiar name. Speak of me in the easy way which you always used. Put no difference into your tone. Wear no forced air of solemnity or sorrow. Laugh as we always laughed at the little jokes that we enjoyed together. Play, smile, think of me, pray for me.

"Someone once described John to me as the best man she had ever known," Randy continued. "She was right."

Evan, sitting with Liz, squeezed her hand at these words.

Chris's funeral, the day before could not have been more different. Attended by only Evan and Randy, the well-meaning minister attempted to offer comfort to the dry-eyed pair. Although surprised by the depth of grief he felt, Evan shed no more tears for Chris, praying instead that his troubled soul would find peace.

After the gathering at John's house, Randy and Evan brought Liz home. Both hugged her affectionately and bid her a quiet good night at her door, before going into Evan's apartment.

"Poor Liz," Randy sighed as he hung up his coat, "she looks heartbroken. I hope she'll be all right."

"She's stronger than you think," Evan said. "She will get through this. She already told me that she is going to go back to finish her nurse's training. She said that if John had the guts to go back to school at his age, there was no reason why she couldn't."

"Good for her," Randy smiled.

Evan poured them both a drink and went to his office, Randy following him. "It was good of Levesque to come today," he said. "Did he speak to you?"

"Briefly. We'll meet with him next week to start discussing the details." He looked around Evan's cluttered office. "You're going to need to start packing up soon. He's offered us space in his building for the time being."

"I went to Chris's studio yesterday morning. You know I'd never been there before. It was already almost empty. He must have been planning to do it for some time." He sighed. "I was going through his papers. He had a large insurance policy, naming me as the beneficiary. I don't think I should take it, even if they pay."

"They'll pay. According to Farrelly, his death is being ruled an accident," Randy said. "And you should take it." He knew that Evan would be facing medical bills in the thousands and felt a grim satisfaction that Chris would be paying them. "But we can talk about that later." He picked up a package he had left there earlier in the week. "I was going to give you this Monday night."

Evan took it from him, opening it clumsily with his good hand to reveal a book. Leafing through it he found exquisitely detailed replicas of his designs for the apartment building. "It's beautiful," he said, his eyes growing misty as he read the inscription on the first page:

"Architecture is the alphabet of giants; it is the largest set of symbols ever made to meet the eyes of men. A tower stands up like a sort of simplified statue, of much more than heroic size.

G.K. Chesterton"

Underneath, was scrawled, "E.B. from RKO, October 1955."

Evan left the room wordlessly, walking through the apartment to go out to the balcony. Randy joined him and they both stood for a long time leaning on the railing, gazing at the vast city that was spread out before them: the changing foliage of the trees of Central Park, the never-ending line of traffic snaking up Park Avenue, the churches, the stores of Fifth Avenue, the Plaza Hotel and the great towers of glass and concrete and steel.

"They're only buildings," Evan said. "Is wrong to feel this way about them?"

"Yes, they're only buildings, but they represent so much more. From the pyramids to the Empire State Building, men have built to prove that they existed. You and I are privileged," he said. "We are the scribes of posterity."

XXXXX

_Epilogue_

The party given by RKO/Bourne Associates to celebrate the tenth year of their partnership was widely regarded as the hottest ticket in town. Dozens of people wandered, open-mouthed, through their new offices occupying the top two floors of the building they had designed on Madison Avenue.

One room, however, was off-limits to the public, its only access, doors leading from the senior partners' offices. Bare, except for a partners' desk and side-by-side drafting tables, no one except the cleaning staff was allowed to enter and none of the associates dared disturb the senior partners when they worked in there.

Evan never regained full use of his hand, but, after several more surgeries, he was able to hold a pencil well enough to make rough sketches, which Randy turned into preliminary drawings. His initial frustration at his restricted output turned to amusement when he realised that the scarcity of his designs made them all the more valuable. He became a respected contributor to architectural journals and taught a class at NYU. Although he rarely accepted more than one commission a year, requests for his services flooded in.

The return of the bad-boy of architecture had caused considerable excitement. On occasion, Randy could still provide a quote guaranteed to create a stir, such as when he referred to Conrad Hilton as a pious shop-keeper, who should be doing penance for the monstrosities he called hotels. His own designs for Levesque had aroused the controversy that both men had hoped for: hated by many at first, they were already being imitated and were now being praised as modernist vanguards. As always, Randy heaped scorn on his detractors and sneered at his imitators, but usually Evan's influence restrained him. When Life magazine did a feature on them, however, even Evan enjoyed the fuss caused by the cover, which pictured them both lounging in the briefest of swimming trunks beside the pool of the Miami hotel Randy had designed.

Evan's church had won several important prizes and Jack Swagger, now returned to Oklahoma, found his window designs in great demand. In spite of many requests, Randy rarely created furniture outside of that required for Levesque's hotels, but he had designed a chair that was destined to become a classic on the scale of Mies's Barcelona chair. He used the money realised from this to endow scholarships, awarded to students who would have otherwise been forced to give up their studies. The John Cena Memorial Award had already allowed over a dozen young men and women to complete their educations.

Much to Randy's disgust, Evan had insisted on donating the bulk of the money he had received from Chris's insurance to organisations dedicated to the rehabilitation of people who had lost the use of a limb. Liz, now a qualified RN worked with child amputees and, to her mother's dismay, had refused proposals from no fewer than three doctors.

Most Saturday mornings, Randy and Evan still walked the streets of their adopted city, pausing frequently to scoff or admire. Often they revisited the Seagram Building, finally completed in 1958 and there existed an unverifiable rumour that they had been asked to leave a revival of The Fountainhead because they couldn't stop laughing at its sheer absurdity.

They maintained separate addresses in neighbouring buildings on Sutton Place, but were generally inseparable, although their associates ran for cover when they could be heard shouting at one another in their private workroom. On the walls of this room they hung only drawings and pictures of special significance: Randy's nursery sketches, Evan's church drawings, a photograph of them both lazing on the sand at Jones Beach with John and Liz and a candid shot, captured by a New York Times photographer on one of their Saturday morning walks, standing in front of the Seagram Building, both of them gazing upwards, their feet planted firmly on the ground, their heads in the clouds, together, always.


End file.
